The  Chalice 


Cyrus 

Townsend 

Bradv 


"Leave  me  to  myself,  I  would  not  take  the  finest, 
noblest  man  on  earth — "      {page  50) 


THE  CHALICE 
OF  COURAGE 

A  Romance  of  Colorado 

BY 

GYRUS  TOWNSEND  BRADY 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  SOUTHERNERS. 

THE    GRIP    OF    HONOR, 

A  MIDSHIPMAN  IN  THE  PACIFIC,  ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

HARRISON  FISHER  AND  J.  N.  MARCHAND 


wfm 


GROSSET     &     DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  ::  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1913 
Bt  W.  G.  CHAPMAW 

'  'COPYRItiHT,   191a     ,    ': 

By  DOBli,  MEAD  &  .cCm;paN1? 


To  My  Beloved  Friend 

JOHN  B.  WALKER,  JR. 

Great-hearted,  Great-souled,  High-spirited 

Man  of  Colorado. 


912784 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/chaliceofcourageOObradrich 


PREFACE 

Prefaces,  Hlce  much  study,  are  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh ;  to  some  people,  not  to  me.  I  can  conceive 
of  no  literary  proposition  more  attractive  than  the 
opportunity  to  write  unlimited  prefaces.  Let  me 
write  the  preface  and  I  care  not  who  writes  the 
book.  Unfortunately  for  my  desires,  I  can  only 
be  prefatory  in  the  case  of  my  own.  Happily  my 
own  are  sufficiently  numerous  to  afford  me  some 
scope  in  the  indulgence  of  this  passion  for  fore- 
words. 

I  suppose  no  one  ever  sat  down  to  write  a  pref- 
ace until  after  he  had  written  the  book.  It  is 
like  the  final  pat  that  the  fond  parent  gives  to  the 
child  before  it  is  allowed  to  depart  in  its  best 
clothes.  I  have  seen  the  said  parent  accompany 
the  child  quite  a  distance  on  the  way,  keeping  up 
a  continual  process  of  adjustment  of  raiment  which 
it  was  evidently  loath  to  discontinue. 

And  that  is  my  case  exactly.  Here  is  the  novel 
with  which  I  have  done  my  best,  which  I  have 
written  and  rewritten  after  long  and  earnest 
thought,  and  yet  I  cannot  let  it  go  forth  without 
some  final,  shall  I  say  caress?  And  as  it  is,  I 
really  have  nothing  of  importance  to  say!     The 


PREFACE 

final  pats  and  pulls  and  tugs  and  smoothmgs  'do 
not  materially  add  to  the  child's  appearance  or  in- 
crease Its  fascination,  and  I  am  at  a  loss  to  find  a 
reason  for  the  preface  except  It  be  the  converse  of 
the  statement  about  the  famous  and  much  disliked 
Dr.  Fell! 

Perhaps,  if  I  admit  to  you  that  I  have  been  irt 
the  canon,  that  I  have  followed  the  course  of  thei 
brook,  that  I  have  seen  that  lake,  that  I  have 
tramped  those  trails,  It  will  serve  to  make  you 
understand,  dear  reader,  how  real  and  actual  It 
all  Is  to  me.  Yes,  I  have  even  looked  over  the 
precipice  down  which  the  woman  fell.  I  have 
talked  with  old  KIrkby;  Robert  Maitland  Is  an 
intimate  friend  of  mine;  I  have  even  met  his 
brother  In  Philadelphia  and  as  for  that  glorious 
girl  Enid  —  well,  being  a  married  man,  I  will  re- 
frain from  any  personal  appraisement  of  her  quali- 
ties. But  I  can  with  propriety  dilate  upon  New- 
bold,  and  even  Armstrong,  bad  as  he  was,  has 
some  place  In  my  regard. 

If  these  people  shall  by  any  chance  seem  real 
to  you  and  become  your  friends  as  they  are  mine, 
another  of  tijose  pleasant  ties  that  bind  the  author 
and  his  public  together  will  have  been  woven, 
knotted,  forged.  Never  mind  the  method  so  long 
as  there  Is  a  tie.  And  with  this  hope,  looking  out 
ug  the  winter  snows  that  might  have  covered  the 


PREFACE 

range,  as  I  have  often  seen  them  there,  I  bid  you 
a  happy  good  morning. 

Cyrus  Townsend  Brady 
St.  George's  Rectory,  Kansas  City,  Missouru 
Thanksgiving  Day,  19  ii* 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

THE  HIGHER  LAW 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass  .     .       i 
II    Alone  Upon  the  Trail      .     .     .     .     i6 

BOOK  II 

THE  EAST  AND  THE  WEST 


III 

The  Young  Lady  from  Philadelphia    29 

IV 

The  Game  Played  in  the  Usual  Way    43 

V 

The  Story  and  the  Letters      .     .     , 

55 

VI 

The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite  .     , 

72 

VII 

The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood  . 

88 

VIII 

Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection  , 
BOOK  III 

FORGETTING  AND  FORGOT 

lOI 

IX 

A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills  .     . 

123 

X 

A  Telegram  and  a  Caller  . 

136 

XI 

Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away     . 

149 

XII 

On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door    . 

166 

XIII 

The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains  . 

179 

XIV 

A  Tour  of  Inspection    .... 

193 

XV 

The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains 

203 

CONTENTS 
BOOK  IV 

OH  YE  ICE  AND  SNOW,  PRAISE  YE  THE  LORD 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVI  The  Woman's  Heart 223 

XVII  The  Man's  Heart 236 

XVIII  The  Kiss  on  the  Hand 248 

XIX  The  Face  in  the  Locket    .     .     .     .261 

XX  The  Strength  of  the  Weak  .     .     .  276 

BOOK  V 

THE  CUP  IS  DRAINED 

XXI  The  Challenge  of  the  Range     .     .  291 

XXII  The  Converging  Trails     .     .     .     .310 

XXIII  The  Odds  Against  Him 327 

XXIV  The  Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men  .  339 
XXV    The  Becoming  End 357 

XXVI    The  Draught  of  Joy 368 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  Leave  Me  to  Myself,  I  would 

NOT  TAKE  THE  FiNEST,  NOBLEST 

Man  ON  Earth  — "  ....     Frontispiece 

"Read  the  Letters,"  He  Said. 
"They'll  Tell  the  Story. 
Good-night." Facing;  page    70 

"Wait!  I  am  a  Woman,  Abso- 
lutely ALONE,  Entirely  at 
Your  Mercy" "      "      156 

It  Was  All  up  with  Armstrong         "      "     354 


THE  CHALICE  OF  COURAGE 

(Courtesy   of    The   Outlook) 

Drink  of  the  Chalice  of  Courage  I 
Pressed  to  the  trembling  lip, 

The  dark-veiled  fears 
From  the  passing  years, 

Like  a  dusty  garment  slip. 

Drink  of  the  Chalice  of  Courage  I 
Poured  for  the  Hero's  feast, 

When  the  strength  divine 
Of  its  subtle  wine 

Is  shared  with  the  last  and  least. 

Drink  of  the  Chalice  of  Courage  I 
The  mead  of  mothers  and  men, 

And  the  sinewed  might 
Of  the  Victor's  might, 

Be  yours,  again  and  again. 

Marie  Hemstreet 


BOOK  I 
THE  HIGHER  LAW 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   CUP   THAT  .WOULD   NOT   PASS 

The  huge  concave  of  the  rocky  wall  towering 
above  them  threw  the  woman's  scream  far  into 
the  vast  profound  of  the  cafion.  •  Jt'c^nle  sferp 
to  the  man's  ear,  yet  terminated  abruptly;  as 
when  two  rapidly  moving  trains  pass,  the  whistle 
of  one  is  heard  shrill  for  one  moment  only  to 
be  cut  short  on  the  instant.  Brief  as  it  was, 
however,  the  sound  was  sufficiently  appalling; 
its  suddenness,  its  unexpectedness,  the  awful  ter- 
ror in  its  single  note,  as  well  as  its  instantaneity, 
almost  stopped  his  heart. 

With  the  indifference  of  experience  and  long 
usage  he  had  been  riding  carelessly  along  an  old 
pre-historic  trail  through  the  canon,  probably 
made  and  forgotten  long  before  the  Spaniards 
spied  out  the  land.  Engrossed  in  his  thoughts, 
he  had  been  heedless  alike  of  the  wall  above  and 
of  the  wall  below.  Prior  to  that  moment 
neither  the  over-hanging  rock  that  curved  above 
his  head  nor  the  almost  sheer  fall  to  the  river  a 
thousand  feet  beneath  the  narrow  ledge  of  the 
trail  had  influenced  him  at  all.     He  might  have 


2  The  Chalice  of.  Courage 

been  riding  a  country  road  so  indifferent  had 
been  his  progress.  That  momentary  shriek  dy- 
ing thinly  away  into  a  strange  silence  changed 
everything. 

The  man  was  riding  a  sure-footed  mule,  which 
perhaps  somewhat  accounted  for  his  lack  of  care, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  animal  must  also  have 
heard  and  understood  the  meaning  of  the 
won:^an's  scream,  for  v^ith  no  bridle  signal  and 
no  spoken  word  the  mule  stopped  suddenly  as  if 
petrified.  Rider  and  ridden  stood  as  if  carved 
from  stone. 

The  man's  comprehending,  realizing  fear 
almost  paralyzed  him.  At  first  he  could  scarcely 
force  himself  to  do  that  toward  which  his  whole 
being  tended  —  look  around.  Divining  instantly 
the  full  meaning  of  that  sudden  cry,  it  seemed 
hours  before  he  could  turn  his  head;  really  her 
cry  and  his  movement  were  practically  simultane- 
ous. He  threw  an  agonized  glance  backward  on 
the  narrow  trail  and  saw  —  nothing!  Where 
,j^  there  had  been  life,  companionship,  comradeship, 
!  a  woman,  there  was  now  vacancy. 

The  trail  made  a  little  bend  behind  him,  he 
could  see  its  surface  for  some  distance,  but  not 
what  lay  beneath.  He  did  not  need  the  testi- 
mony of  his  eyes  for  that.  He  knew  what  was 
down  there. 


(The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass       3, 

It  seemed  to  his  distorted  perceptions  that  he 
moved  slowly,  his  limbs  were  like  lead,  every 
joint  was  as  stiff  as  a  rusty  hinge.  Actually  he 
dropped  from  the  mule's  back  with  reckless  and 
life-defying  haste  and  fairly  leaped  backward  on 
his  path.  Had  there  been  any  to  note  his  prog- 
ress, they  would  have  said  he  risked  his  own 
life  over  every  foot  of  the  way.  He  ran  down 
the  narrow  shelf,  rock  strewn  and  rough,  sway- 
ing upon  the  unfathomable  brink  until  he  reached 
the  place  where  she  had  been  a  moment  since. 
There  he  dropped  on  one  knee  and  looked  down- 
ward. 

She  was  there!  A  few  hundred  feet  below 
the  trail  edge  the  canon  wall,  generally 
a  sheer  precipice,  broadened  out  Into  a  great 
butte,  or  buttress,  which  sloped  somewhat  more 
gently  to  the  foaming,  roaring  river  far  beneath. 
About  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  under  him  a 
stubby  spur  with  a  pocket  on  It  jutted  out  from, 
the  face  of  the  cliff;  she  had  evidently  struck  on 
that  spur  and  bounded  off  and  fallen,  half  roll- 
ing, to  the  broad  top  of  the  butte  two  hundred 
or  more  feet  below  the  pocket. 

Three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  down  to  where 
she  lay  he  could  distinguish  little  except  a  mo- 
tionless huddled  mass.  The  bright  blue  of  her 
dress  made  a  splotch  of  unwonted  color  against 


4  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  reddish  brown  monotones  of  the  mountain 
side  and  canon  wall.  She  was  dead,  of  course; 
she  must  be  dead,  the  man  felt.  From  that  dis- 
tance he  could  see  no  breathing,  if  such  there 
were;  indeed  as  he  stared  she  grew  less  and  less 
distinct  to  him,  his  eyes  did  not  fill  with  tears, 
but  to  his  vision  the  very  earth  itself,  the  vast 
depths  of  the  caiion,  the  towering  wall  on  the 
other  side,  seemed  to  quiver  and  heave  before 
him.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  the  elevation 
made  him  dizzy,  sick.  He  put  his  hands  to  his 
face  to  shut  out  the  sight,  he  tore  them  away  to 
look  again.  He  lifted  his  eyes  toward  the  other 
side  across  the  great  gulf  to  the  opposing  Vv^all 
which  matched  the  one  upon  which  he  stood, 
where  the  blue  sky  cloudless  overhung. 

"  God !  "  he  whispered  In  futile  petition  or  may- 
hap expostulation. 

He  was  as  near  the  absolute  breaking  point  as 
a  man  may  go  and  yet  not  utterly  give  way,  for 
he  loved  this  woman  as  he  loved  that  light  of 
heaven  above  him,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
she  was  no  more.  And  so  he  stared  and  stared 
dumbly  agonizing,  wondering,  helpless,;  misty- 
eyed,  blind. 

He  sank  back  from  the  brink  at  last  'a:n'd  tried 
to  collect  his  thoughts.  iWhat  was  he  to  do? 
(There  was  but  one  answer  to  that  question.     He 


The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass       5 

must  go  down  to  her.  There  was  one  quiclc  and 
easy  way;  over  the  brink',  the  way  she  had  gone. 
That  thought  came  to  him  for  a  moment,  but  he 
put  It  away.  He  was  not  a  coward,  life  was  not 
his  own  to  give  or  to  take,  besides  she  might  be 
alive,  she  might  need  him.;  There  must  be  some 
other  way.     * 

Determining  upon  'action,  his  resolution  rose 
dominant,  his  vision  cleared.  Once  again  he 
forced  himself  to  look  over  the  edge  and  see 
other  things  than  she.  He  was  a  daring,  skillful 
and  experienced  mountaineer;  in  a  way  moun- 
taineering was  his  trade.  He  searched  the  side 
of  the  caiion  to  the  right  and  the  left  with  eager 
scrutiny  and  found  no  way  within  the  compass 
of  his  vision  to  the  depths  below.  He  shut  his 
eyes  and  concentrated  his  thoughts  to  remember 
what  they  had  passed  over  that  morning.  There 
came  to  him  the  recollection  of  a  place  which  as 
he  had  viewed  It  he  had  Idly  thought  might  af- 
ford a  practicable  descent  to  the  river's  rim. 

Forgetful  of  the  patient  animal  beside  him,  hei 
rose  to  his  feet  and  with  one  last  look  at  the 
poor  object  below  started  on  his  wild  plunge 
down  the  trail  over  which  some  men  might 
scarcely  have  crept  on  hands  and  knees.  Sweat 
bedewed  his  forehead,  his  limbs  trembled,  his 
pulses  throbbed,  his  heart  beat  almost  to  burst- 


6  The  Chalice  of.  Courage 

ing.  Remorse  sharpened  by  love,  passiori 
quickened  by  despair,  scourged  him,  desperate, 
on  the  way.  And  God  protected  him  also,  or 
he  had  fallen  at  every  uncertain,  hurried,  head- 
long step. 

And  as  he  ran,  thoughts,  reproaches,  scourged 
him  on.  Why  had  he  brought  her,  why  had  he 
allowed  her  to  take  that  trail  which  but  for  him 
and  for  her  had  probably  not  been  traversed  by 
man  or  woman  or  beast,  save  the  mountain 
sheep,  the  gray  wolves,  or  the  grizzly  bear,  for 
five  hundred  years.  She  had  protested  that  she 
was  as  good  a  mountaineer  as  he  • —  and  it  was 
true  —  and  she  had  insisted  on  accompanying 
him;  he  recollected  that  there  had  been  a  sort 
of  terror  in  her  urgency, —  he  must  take  her,  he 
must  not  leave  her  alone,  she  had  pleaded;  he 
had  objected,  but  he  had  yielded,  the  joy  of  her 
companionship  had  meant  so  much  to  him  in  his 
lonely  journeying,  and  now  —  he  accused  himi^ 
self  bitterly  as  he  surged  onward. 

After  a  time  the  man  forced  himself  to  ob- 
serve the  road,  he  discovered  that  in  an  Incredi- 
bly short  period,  perhaps  an  hour,  he  had 
traversed  what  it  had  taken  them  four  times  as 
long  to  pass  over  that  very  day.  He  must  be 
near  his  goal.  Ah,  there  it  was  at  last,  and  in 
all  the  turmoil  and  torture  of  his  brain  he  found 


The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass       7 

room  for  a  throb  of  satisfaction  when  he  came 
upon  the  broken  declivity.  ,Yes,  it  did  afford  a 
practicable  descent;  some  landslide  centuries 
back  had  made  there  a  sort  of  rude,  rough, 
broken,  megalithic  stairway  In  the  wall  of  the 
canon.  The  man  threw  himself  upon  it  and  with 
bleeding  hands,  bruised  limbs  and  torn  clothing 
descended  to  the  level  of  the  river. 

Two  atoms  to  the  eye  of  the  Divine,  in  that 
vast  rift  In  the  gigantic  mountains.  One  uncon- 
scious, motionless,  save  for  faint  gasping  breaths; 
the  other  toiling  blindly  along  the  river  bank, 
fortunately  here  affording  practicable  going,  to 
the  foot  of  the  great  butte  upon  whose  huge 
shoulder  the  other  lay.  The  living  and  the  dead 
in  the  waste  and  the  wilderness  of  the  everlasting 
hills. 

Unconsciously  but  unerringly  the  man  had  fixed 
the  landmarks  In  his  mind  before  he  started  on 
that  terrific  journey.  Without  a  moment  of  in- 
certitude, or  hesitation,  he  proceeded  directly  to 
the  base  of  the  butte  and  as  rapidly  as  if  he  had 
been  fresh  for  the  journey  and  the  endeavor. 
Up  he  climbed  without  a  pause  for  rest.  It  was 
a  desperate  going,  almost  sheer  at  times,  but  his 
passion  found  the  way.  He  clawed  and  tore  at 
the  rocks  like  an  animal,  he  performed  feats  of 
strength  and  skill  and  determination  and  reck- 


8'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

less  courage  marvelous  and  impossible  under  less 
exacting  demands.  Somehow  or  other  he  got  to 
the  top  at  last;  perhaps  no  man  in  all  the  ages 
since  the  world's  first  morning  when  God  Him- 
self upheaved  the  range  had  so  achieved  that 
goal. 

The  last  ascent  was  up  a  little  stretch  of 
straight  rock  over  which  he  had  to  draw  himself 
by  main  strength  and  determination.  He  fell 
panting  on  the  brink,  but  not  for  a  moment  did  he 
remain  prone;  he  got  to  his  feet  at  once  and  stag- 
gered across  the  plateau  which  made  the  head  of 
the  butte  toward  the  blue  object  on  the  further 
side  beneath  the  wall  of  the  cliff  above,  and  in  a 
moment  he  bent  over  what  had  been  —  nay,  as 
he  saw  the  slow  choking  uprise  of  her  breast, 
what  was  —  his  wife. 

He  knelt  down  beside  her  and  looked  at  her 
for  a  moment,  scarce  daring  to  touch  her.  Then 
he  lifted  his  head  and  flung  a  glance  around  the 
canon  as  if  seeking  help  from  man.  As  he  did  so 
he  became  aware,  below  him  on  the  slope,  of  the 
dead  body  of  the  poor  animal  she  had  been  rid- 
ing, whose  misstep,  from  whatever  cause  he 
would  never  know,  had  brought  this  catastrophe 
upon  them. 

Nothing  else  met  his  gaze  but  the  rocks, 
brown,  gray,  relieved  here  and  there  by  green 


The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass       9 

clumps  of  stunted  pine.  Nothing  met  his  ear 
except  far  beneath  him  the  roar  of  the  river,  now- 
reduced  almost  to  a  murmur,  with  which  the  shiv- 
ering leaves  of  aspens,  rustled  by  the  gentle 
breeze  of  this  glorious  morning,  blended  softly 
like  a  sigh  of  summer.  No,  there  was  nobody 
In  the  canon,  no  help  there.  He  threw  his  head 
back  and  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  the  blue 
depths  of  the  heavens  above,  to  the  tops  of  the 
soaring  peaks,  and  there  was  nothing  there  but  the 
eternal  silence  of  a  primeval  day. 

"  God  1  God !  "  he  murmured  again  In  his  de- 
spair. 

It  was  the  final  word  that  comes  to  human  lips 
in  the  last  extremity  when  life  and  Its  hopes  and 
Its  possibilities  tremble  on  the  verge.  And  no 
answer  came  to  this  poor  man  out  of  that  vast 
void. 

He  bent  to  the  woman  again.  What  he  saw 
can  hardly  be  described.  Her  right  arm  and  her 
left  leg  were  bent  backward  and  under  her. 
They  were  shattered,  evidently.  He  was  afraid 
to  examine  her  and  yet  he  knew  that  practically 
every  other  bone  In  her  body  was  broken  as  well. 
Her  head  fell  lower  than  her  shoulders,  the  angle 
which  she  made  with  the  uneven  rock  on  which 
she  lay  convinced  him  that  her  back  was  broken 
too.     Her  clothing  was  rent  by  her  contact  with 


10     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  rocky  spur  above,  It  was  torn  from  the  neck 
downward,  exposing  a  great  red  scar  which  ran 
across  her  sweet  white  young  breast,  blood  oozing 
from  it,  while  in  the  -middle  of  it  something  yel- 
low and  bright  gleamed  In  the  light.  Her  cheek 
was  cut  open,  her  glorious  hair,  matted,  torn  and 
bloody,  was  flung  backward  from  her  down- 
thrown  head. 

She  should  have  been  dead  a  thousand  times, 
but  she  yet  lived,  she  ^breathed,  her  ensanguined 
bosom  rose  and  fell.  Through  her  pallid  lips 
bloody  foam  bubbled,  she  was  still  alive. 

The  man  must  do  something.  He  did  not 
dare  to  move  her  body,  yet  he  took  off  his  hat, 
folded  it,  lifted  her  head  tenderly  and  slipped  It 
underneath ;  it  made  a  better  pillow  than  the  hard 
rock,  he  thought.  Then  he  tore  his  handker- 
chief from  his  neck  and  wiped  away  the  foam 
from  her  lips.  In  his  pocket  he  had  a  flask  of 
whiskey,  a  canteen  of  water  that  hung  from  his 
shoulder  somehow  had  survived  the  rough  usage- 
of  the  rocks.  He  mingled  some  of  the  water' 
with  a  portion  of  the  spirit  In  the  cup  of  the  flask' 
and  poured  a  little  down  her  throat.  Tenderly 
he  took  his  handkerchief  again,  and  wetting  it 
laved  her  brow.  Except  to  mutter  Incoherent 
prayers  again  and  again  he  said  no  word,  but  his 
heart  was  filled  with  passionate  endearments,  he. 


The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass      ii 

lavished  agonized  and  infinite  tenderness  upon 
her  in  his  soul. 

By  and  by  she  opened  her  eyes.  In  those  eyes 
first  of  all  he  saw  bewilderment,  and  then  terror 
and  then  anguish  so  great  that  it  cannot  be 
described,  pain  so  horrible  that  it  is  not  good  for 
man  even  to  think  upon  it.  Incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  her  head  moved,  her  lips  relaxed,  her  set 
jaw  unclenched,  her  tongue  spoke  thickly. 

"God!"  she  said. 

The  same  word  that  he  had  used,  that  final 
word  that  comes  to  the  lips  when  the  heart  is 
wrung,  or  the  body  Is  racked  beyond  human  en- 
durance. The  universal  testimony  to  the  existence 
of  the  Divine,  that  trouble  and  sometimes  trouble 
alone,  wrings  from  man.  No  human  name,  not 
even  his,  upon  her  lips  in  that  first  Instant  of 
realization ! 

"  How  I  r^ —  suffer,"  she  faltered  weakly. 

Her  eyes  closed  again,  the  poor  woman  had 
told  her  God  of  her  condition,  that  was  all  she 
was  equal  to.  Man  and  human  relationships 
might  come  later.  The  man  knelt  by  her  side, 
his  hands  upraised. 

"  Louise,"  he  whispered,  "  speak  to  me." 

Her  eyes  opened  again. 

"  Will,"  the  anguished  voice  faltered  on,  "  I 
am  r — .  broken  —  to    pieces  —  kill    me.      I    can't 


12     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

stand  —  kill  me  '' —  her  voice  rose  with  a  sudden 
fearful  appeal  —  "  kill  me/' 

Then  the  eyes  closed  and  this  time  they  did 
not  open,  although  now  he  overwhelmed  her 
with  words,  alas,  all  he  had  to  give  her.  At 
last  his  passion,  his  remorse,  his  love,  gushing 
from  him  in  a  torrent  of  frantic  appeal  awakened 
her  again.  She  looked  him  once  more  in  the  face 
and  once  more  begged  him  for  that  quick  relief 
he  alone  could  give. 

"  Kill  me." 

That  was  her  only  plea.  There  has  been  One 
and  only  One,  who  could  sustain  such  crucify- 
ing anguish  as  she  bore  without  such  appeal  being 
wrested  from  the  lips,  yet  even  He,  upon  His 
cross,  for  one  moment,  thought  God  had  for- 
saken and  forgotten  Him  I 

She  was  silent,  but  she  was  not  dead.  She  was 
speechless,  but  she  was  not  unconscious,  for  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  with  such 
pitiful  appeal  that  he  would  fain  hide  his  face 
as  he  could  not  bear  it,  and  yet  again  and  again 
as  he  stared  down  into  her  eyes  he  caught  that 
heart  breaking  entreaty,  although  now  she  made 
no  sound.  Every  twisted  bone,  every  welling 
vein,  every  scarred  and  marred  part  on  once 
smooth  soft  flesh  was  eloquent  of  that  piteous  peti- 
tion for  relief.     "  Kill  me  "  she  seemed  to  say  in 


The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass      15 

her  voiceless  agony.  Agony  the  more  appalling 
because  at  last  it  could  make  no  sound. 

He  could  not  resist  that  appeal.  He  fought 
against  It,  but  the  demand  came  to  him  with  more 
and  more  terrific  force  until  he  could  no  longer 
oppose  It.  That  cup  was  tendered  to  him  and  he 
must  drain  It.  No  more  from  his  lips  than  from 
the  lips  of  Him  of  the  Garden  could  It  be  with- 
drawn. Out  of  that  chalice  he  must  drink.  It 
could  not  pass.  Slowly,  never  taking  his  eyes 
from  her,  as  a  man  might  who  was  fascinated 
or  hypnotized,  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  holster 
and  drew  out  his  revolver. 

No,  he  could  not  do  It.  He  laid  the  weapon 
down  on  the  rock  again  and  bowed  forward  on 
his  knees,  praying  Incoherently,  protesting  that 
God  should  place  this  burden  on  mere  man.  In 
the  silence  he  could  hear  the  awful  rasp  of  her 
breath  —  the  only  answer.  He  looked  up  to  find 
her  eyes  upon  him  again. 

Life  Is  a  precious  thing,  to  preserve  it  men  go 
to  the  last  limit.  In  defense  of  It  things  are  per- 
mitted that  are  permitted  In  no  other  case.  Is 
it  ever  nobler  to  destroy  It  than  to  conserve  It? 
Was  this  such  an  instance?  What  were  the  con- 
ditions? 

There  was  not  a  human  being,  white  or  red, 
within  five  days'  journey  from  the  spot  where 


14     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

these  two  children  of  malign  destiny  confronted 
each  other.  That  poor  huddled  broken  mass  of 
flesh  and  bones  could  not  have  been  carried  a  foot 
across  that  rocky  slope  without  suffering  agonies 
beside  which  all  the  torture  that  might  be  rack- 
ing her  now  would  be  as  nothing.  He  did  not 
dare  even  to  lay  hand  upon  her  to  straighten  even 
one  bent  and  twisted  limb,  he  could  not  even  level 
or  compose  her  body  where  she  lay.  He  almost 
felt  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  unpardonable 
cruelty  in  giving  her  the  stimulant  and  recalling 
her  to  consciousness.  Nor  could  he  leave  her 
where  she  was,  to  seek  and  bring  help  to  her* 
iWith  all  the  speed  that  frantic  desire,  and  pas- 
sionate adoration,  and  divine  pity,  would  lend  to 
him,  it  would  be  a  week  before  he  could  return, 
and  by  that  time  the  wolves  and  the  vultures  ^ — • 
he  could  not  think  that  sentence  to  completion.; 
That  way  madness  lay. 

The  woman  was  doomed,  no  mortal  could  sur- 
vive her  wounds,  but  she  might  linger  for  days 
while  high  fever  and  Inflammation  supervened. 
And  each  hour  would  add  to  her  suffering.  God 
was  merciful  to  His  Son,  Christ  died  quickly  on 
the  cross,  mere  man  sometimes  hung  there  for; 
Hays. 

All  these  things  ran  like  lightning  through  his 
brain.     His    hand   closed   upon    the    pistol,    the 


The  Cup  That  Would  Not  Pass      15; 

eternal  anodyne.  No,  he  could  not.  And  the  tor- 
tured eyes  were  open  again,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
woman  had  summoned  strength  for  a  final  appeal. 

"Will,"  she  whispered,  "if  you^ — love  me 
^  kill  me." 

He  thrust  the  muzzle  of  his  weapon  against 
her  heart,  she  could  see  his  movement  and  for 
a  moment  gratitude  and  love  shone  in  her  eyes, 
and  then  with  a  hand  that  did  not  tremble,  he 
pulled  the  trigger. 

A  thousand  thunder  claps  could  not  have  roared 
in  his  ear  with  such  detonation.  And  he  had 
done  it!  He  had  slain  the  thing  he  loved!  Was 
it  in  obedience  to  a  higher  law  even  than  that 
writ  on  the  ancient  tables  of  stone  ? 

For  a  moment  he  thought  incoherently,  the 
pistol  fell  from  his  hand,  his  eyes  turned  to  her 
face,  her  eyes  were  open  still,  but  there  was 
neither  pain,  nor  appeal,  nor  love,  nor  relief  in 
them;  there  was  no  light  in  them;  only  peace, 
calm,  darkness,  rest.  His  hand  went  out  to  them 
and  drew  the  lids  down,  and  as  he  did  so,  some- 
thing gave  way  In  him  and  he  fell  forward 
across  the  red,  scarred  white  breast  that  no 
longer  either  rose  or  fell. 


CHAPTER  II 

ALONE   UPON  THE   TRAIL 

They  had  started  from  their  last  camp  early  In 
the  morning.  It  had  been  mid-day  when  she  fell 
and  long  after  noon  when  he  killed  her  and 
lapsed  Into  merciful  oblivion.  It  was  dusk  In  the 
canon  when  he  came  to  life  again.  The  sun  was 
still  some  distance  above  the  horizon,  but  the 
jutting  walls  of  the  great  pass  cut  off  the  light, 
the  butte  top  was  In  ever  deepening  shadow. 

I  have  often  wondered  what  were  the  feelings 
of  Lazarus  when  he  was  called  back  to  life  by 
the  great  cry  of  his  Lord.  "Hither  —  OutP' 
Could  that  transition  from  the  newer  way  of 
death  to  the  older  habit  of  living  have  been  ac- 
complished without  exquisite  anguish  and  pain, 
brief,  sudden,  but  too  sacred,  like  his  other  ex- 
periences, to  dwell  upon  In  mortal  hours? 

What  he  of  Bethany  might  perhaps  have  ex- 
perienced this  man  felt  long  after  under  other  cir- 
cumstances. The  enormous  exertions  of  the  day, 
the  cruel  bruises  and  lacerations  to  which  clothes 
and  body  gave  evidence,  the  sick,  giddy,  uncertain, 
helpless,   feeling  that  comes  when  one  recovers 

z6 


Alone  Upon  the  Trail  17 

consciousness  after  such  a  collapse,  would  have 
been  hard  enough  to  bear;  but  he  took  absolutely 
no  account  of  any  of  these  things  for,  as  he  lifted 
himself  on  his  hands,  almost  animal-like  for  a 
moment,  from  the  cold  body  of  his  wife,  every- 
thing came  across  him  with  a  sudden,  terrific, 
overwhelming,  rush  of  recollection. 

She  was  dead,  and  he  had  killed  her.  There 
were  reasons,  arguments,  excuses,  for  his  course; 
he  forgot  them  confronted  by  that  grim,  terrific, 
tragic  fact.  The  difference  between  that  mys- 
terious thing  so  incapable  of  human  definition 
which  we  call  life,  and  that  other  mysterious 
thing  equally  insusceptible  of  explanation  which 
we  call  death,  is  so  great  that  when  the  two  con- 
front each  other  the  most  indifferent  is  awed 
by  the  contrast.  Many  a  man  and  many  a 
woman  prays  by  the  bedside  of  some  agonized 
sufferer  for  a  surcease  of  anguish  only  to  be 
brought  about  by  death,  by  a  dissolution  of  soul 
and  body,  beseeching  God  of  His  mercy  for  the 
oblivion  of  the  last,  long,  quiet,  sleep;  but  when 
the  prayer  has  been  granted,  and  the  living  eyes 
look  into  the  dead,  the  beating  heart  bends  over 
the  still  one  —  it  is  a  hard  soul  Indeed  which  has 
the  strength  not  to  wish  again  for  a  moment,  one 
little  moment  of  life,  to  whisper  one  word  of  abid- 
ing love,  to  hear  one  word  of  fond  farewell. 


1 8  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Since  that  is  true,  what  could  this  man  thinlc 
whose  hand  had  pointed  the  weapon  and  pulled 
the  trigger  and  caused  that  great  gaping  hole 
through  what  had  once  been  a  warm  and  loving 
heart?  God  had  laid  upon  him  a  task,  than 
which  none  had  ever  been  heavier  on  the  shoulders 
of  man,  and  he  did  not  think  as  he  stared  at  her 
wildly  that  God  had  given  him  at  the  same  time 
strength  to  bear  his  burden. 

Later,  It  might  be  that  cold  reason  would  come 
to  his  aid  and  justify  him  for  what  he  had  done, 
but  now,  now,  he  only  realized  that  she  was  dead, 
and  he  had  killed  her.  He  forgot  her  suffering 
in  his  own  anguish  and  reproach  of  himself. 
He  found  time  to  marvel  at  himself  with  a 
strange  sort  of  wonder.  How  could  he  have 
done  It. 

Something  broke  the  current  of  his  thoughts, 
and  It  was  good  for  him  that  It  was  so.  He 
heard  a  swish  through  the  air  and  he  looked 
away  from  his  dead  wife  In  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  A  little  distance  off  upon  a  pinnacle  of 
rock  he  saw  a  vulture,  a  hideous,  horrible,  un- 
clean, carrion  bird.  While  he  watched,  another 
and  another  settled  softly  down.  He  rose  to  his 
feet  and  far  beneath  him  from  the  tree  clad 
banks  of  the  river  the  long  howl  of  a  wolf  smote 
upon    his    ear.     Gluttony    and    rapine    were    at 


Alone  Upon  the  Trail  19; 

hand.  Further  down  the  declivity  the  body  of 
the  dead  mule  was  the  object  of  the  converging 
attack  from  earth  and  air.  The  threat  of  that 
attack  stirred  him  to  life. 

There  were  things  he  had  to  "do.  The  butte 
top  was  devoid  of  earth  or  much  vegetation,  yet 
here  and  there  in  hollows  where  water  settled  or 
drained,  soft  green  moss  grew.  He  stooped  over 
and  lifted  the  body  of  the  woman.  She  seemed 
to  fall  together  loosely  and  almost  break  within 
his  hands  —  it  was  evidence  of  what  the  fall  had 
done  for  her,  justification  for  his  action,  too,  if 
he  had  been  in  a  mood  to  reason  about  it,  but  his 
only  thought  then  was  of  how  she  must  have  suf- 
fered. By  a  strange  perversion  he  had  to  fight 
against  the  feeling  that  she  was  suffering  now. 
He  laid  her  gently  and  tenderly  down  in  a  deep 
hollow  in  the  rock  shaped  almost  to  contain  her. 
He  straightened  her  poor  twisted  limbs.  He  ar- 
ranged with  decent  care  the  ragged  dress,  cover- 
ing over  the  torn  breast  and  the  frightful  wound 
above  her  heart.  With  the  last  of  the  water  in 
the  canteen,  he  washed  her  face,  he  could  not ' 
wash  out  the  scar  of  course.  With  rude  unskill- 
ful hands,  yet  with  pitiable  tenderness,  he  strove 
to  arrange  her  blood-matted  hair,  he  pillowed 
her  head  upon  his  hat  again. 

Sometimes    the    last    impression    of    life    is 


ao     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

stamped  on  the  face  of  death,  sometimes  we  see 
in  the  awful  fixity  of  feature  that  attends  upon 
dissolution,  the  index  of  the  agony  In  which  life 
has  passed,  but  more  often,  thank  God,  death 
lays  upon  pain  and  sorrow  a  smoothing,  calming 
hand.  It  was  so  in  this  Instance.  There  was 
a  great  peace,  a  great  relief.  In  the  face  he  looked 
upon;  this  poor  woman  had  been  tortured  not 
only  In  body,  that  he  knew,  but  she  had  suffered 
anguish  of  soul  of  which  he  was  unaware,  and 
death,  had  It  come  In  gentler  form  would  per- 
haps not  have  been  unwelcome.  That  showed 
in  her  face.  There  was  dignity,  composure,  sur- 
cease of  care,  repose  —  the  rest  that  shall  be 
forever  I 

The  man  had  done  all  that  he  could  for  her. 
Stop,  there  was  one  thing  more;  he  knelt  down 
by  her  side,  he  was  not  what  we  commonly  call 
a  religious  man,  the  habit  that  he  had  learned  at 
his  mother's  knee  he  had  largely  neglected  In  ma- 
turer  years,  but  he  had  not  altogether  forgotten, 
and  even  the  atheist  —  and  he  was  far  from  that 
•■ — might  have  prayed  then. 

"  God,  accept  her,"  he  murmured.  "  Christ 
receive  her,"  —  that  was  all  but  It  was  enough. 

He  remained  by  her  side  some  time  looking  at 
her;  he  would  fain  have  knelt  there  forever;  he 
would  have  been  happy  at  that  moment  If  he  could 


Alone  Upon  the  Trail  21 

have  Iain  down  by  her  and  had  someone  do  for 
them  both  the  last  kindly  office  he  was  trying  to 
do  for  her.  But  that  was  not  to  be,  and  the 
growing  darkness  warned  him  to  make  haste. 
The  wolf  barks  were  sharper  and  nearer,  he 
stooped  over  her,  bent  low  and  laid  his  face 
against  hers.  Oh  that  cold  awful  touch  of  long 
farewell.  He  tore  himself  away  from  her,  lifted 
from  her  neck  a  little  object  that  had  gleamed  so 
prettily  amid  the  red  blood.  It  was  a  locket. 
He  had  never  seen  it  before  and  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  what  It  might  contain.  He  kissed  It, 
slipped  It  Into  the  pocket  of  his  shirt  and  rose  to 
his  feet. 

The  plateau  was  strewn  with  rock;  working 
rapidly  and  skillfully  he  built  a  burial  mound  of 
stone  over  her  body.  The  depression  In  which 
she  lay  was  deep  enough  to  permit  no  rock  to 
touch  her  person.  The  cairn.  If  such  It  may  be 
called,  was  soon  completed.  No  beast  of  the 
earth  or  bird  of  the  air  could  disturb  what  was 
left  of  his  wife.  It  seemed  so  piteous  to  him  to 
think  of  her  so  young,  and  so  sweet  and  so  fair, 
so  soft  and  so  tender,  so  brave  and  so  true,  lying 
alone  In  the  vast  of  the  caiion,  weighted  down 
by  the  great  rocks  that  love's  hands  had  heaped 
above  her.     But  there  was  no  help  for  It. 

Gathering   up    the    revolver    and    canteen    he 


22     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

turned  and  fell  rather  than  climbed  to  the  level 
of  the  river.  It  was  quite  dark  In  the  depths 
of  the  canon,  but  he  pressed  rapidly  on  over  the 
uneven  and  broken  rocks  until  he  reached  the 
giant  stairway.  Up  them  he  tolled  painfully  un- 
til he  attained  again  the  trail. 

It  was  dark  when  he  reached  the  wooded  re- 
cess where  they  had  slept  the  night  before.  There 
were  grass  and  trees,  a  bubbling  spring,  an  oasis 
amid  the  desert  of  rocks;  he  found  the  ashes  of 
their  fire  and  gathering  wood  heaped  It  upon  the 
still  living  embers  until  the  blaze  rose  and  roared. 
He  realized  at  last  that  he  was  weary  beyond 
measure,  he  had  gone  through  the  unendurable 
since  the  morning.  He  threw  himself  down 
alone  where  they  had  lain  together  the  night  be- 
fore and  sought  in  vain  for  sleep.  In  his  ears 
he  heard  that  sharp,  sudden,  breaking  cry  once 
more,  and  her  voice  begging  him  to  kill  her.  He 
heard  again  the  rasp  of  her  agonized  breathing, 
the  crashing  detonation  of  the  weapon.  He 
writhed  with  the  anguish  of  it  all.  Dry-eyed  he 
arose  at  last  and  stretched  out  his  hands  to  that 
heaven  that  had  done  so  little  for  him  he  thought. 

Long  after  midnight  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  un- 
easy, restless  stupor.  The  morning  sun  of  the 
new  and  desolate  day  recalled  him  to  action.  He 
arose  to  his  feet  and  started  mechanically  down 


Alone  Upon  the  Trail  2;^ 

the  trail  alone  —  always  and  forever  alone. 
.Yet  God  was  with  him  though  he  knew  It  not. 

Four  days  later  a  little  party  of  men  winding 
through  the  foothills  came  upon  a  wavering, 
ghastly,  terrifying  figure.  Into  the  mining  town 
two  days  before  had  wandered  a  solitary  mule, 
scraps  of  harness  dangling  from  It.  They  had 
recognized  it  as  one  of  a  pair  the  man  had  pur- 
chased for  a  proposed  journey  far  Into  the  un- 
surveyed  and  inaccessible  mountains  —  to  hunt 
for  the  treasures  hidden  within  their  granite 
breasts.  It  told  too  plainly  a  story  of  disaster. 
'A  relief  party  had  been  hurriedly  organized  to 
search  for  the  two,  one  of  whom  was  much  be- 
loved In  the  rude  frontier  camp. 

The  man  they  met  on  the  way  was  the  man 
they  had  come  to  seek.  His  boots  were  cut  to 
pieces,  his  feet  were  raw  and  bleeding  for  he  had 
taken  no  care  to  order  his  going  or  to  choose  his 
way.  His  clothes  were  In  rags,  through  rents 
and  tatters  his  emaciated  body  showed  Its  dis- 
colored bruises.  His  hands  were  swollen  and 
soiled  with  wounds  and  the  stains  of  the  way. 
The  front  of  his  shirt  was  sadly  and  strangely 
discolored.  He  was  hatless,  his  hair  was  gray, 
his  face  was  as  white  as  the  snow  on  the  crest 
of  the  peak,  his  lips  were  bloodless  yet  his  eyes 
blazed  with  fever. 


'24  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

For  four  days  without  food  and  with  but  little 
water  this  man  had  plodded  down  the  mountairt 
toward  the  camp.  All  his  energies  were  merged 
in  one  desire,  to  come  in  touch  with  humanity 
and  tell  his  awful  story;  the  keeping  of  it  to  him- 
self, which  he  must  do  perforce  because  he  was 
alone  in  the  world,  added  to  the  difficulty  of  en- 
durance. The  sun  had  beaten  down  upon  him 
piteously  during  the  day.  The  cold  dew  had 
drenched  him  in  the  night.  Apparitions  had  met 
his  vision  alike  in  the  darkness  and  in  the  light. 
Voices  had  whispered  to  him  as  he  plodded  on. 
But  something  had  sustained  him  in  spite  of  the 
awful  drain,  physical  and  mental,  which  had 
wasted  him  away.  Something  had  sustained 
him  until  he  came  in  touch  with  men,  thereafter 
the  duty  would  devolve  upon  his  brethren  not 
upon  himself. 

They  caught  him  as  he  staggered  into  the  group; 
of  them,  these  Good  Samaritans  of  the  frontier; 
they  undressed  him  and  washed  him,  they  bound 
up  his  wounds  and  ministered  to  him,  they  laid 
him  gently  down  upon  the  ground,  they  bent  over 
him  tenderly  and  listened  to  him  while  he  told  In 
broken,  disjointed  words  the  awful  story,  of  her 
plunge  into  the  canon,  of  his  search  for  her,  of 
her  last  appeal  to  him.     And  then  he  stopped. 

"What  then?"  asked  one  of  the  men  bend- 
ing over  him  as  he  hesitated. 


Alone  Upon  the  Trail  25 

"  God  forgive  me  —  I  shot  her  —  through  the 
heart.'' 

There  was  appalling  stillness  in  the  little 
group  of  rough  men,  while  he  told  them  where 
she  lay  and  begged  them  to  go  and  bring  back 
what  was  left  of  her. 

"  You  must  bring  her  —  back,"  he  urged  piti- 
'fully. 

None  of  the  men  had  ever  been  up  the  canon, 
but  they  knew  of  its  existence  and  the  twin  peaks 
of  which  he  had  told  them  could  be  seen  from 
afar.  He  had  given  them  sufficient  information 
to  identify  the  place  and  to  enable  them  to  go  and 
bring  back  the  body  for  Christian  burial.  Now 
these  rude  men  of  the  mining  camp  had  loved 
that  woman  as  men  love  a  bright  and  cheery  per- 
sonality which  dwelt  among  them. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  spokesman,  "  but  what 
about  you?  " 

"  I  shall  be  ^^^  a  dead  man,"  was  the  mur- 
mured answer,  "  and  I  don't  care  —  I  shall  be 
glad  —  " 

He  had  no  more  speech  and  no  more  conscious- 
ness after  that.  It  was  a  sardonic  comment  on 
the  situation  that  the  last  words  that  fell  from 
his  lips  then  should  be  those  words  of  joy. 

"Glad,  glad!" 


BOOK  II 
THE  EAST  AND  THE  WEST 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  YOUNG  LADY  FROM  PHILADELPHIA 

Miss  Enid  Maitland  was  a  highly  specialized 
product  of  the  far  east.  I  say  far,  viewing 
Colorado  as  a  point  of  departure  not  as  identi- 
fying her  with  the  orient.  The  classic  shades  of 
firyn  Mawr  had  been  the  "  Groves  of  Acade- 
mus  where  with  old  Plato  she  had  walked." 
Incidentally  during  her  completion  of  the  ex- 
haustive curriculum  of  that  justly  famous  institu- 
tion she  had  acquired  at  least  a  bowing  acquaint- 
ance with  other  masters  of  the  mind. 

Nor  had  the  physical  in  her  education  been 
sacrificed  to  the  mental.  In  her  at  least  the 
mens  sana  and  the  corpore  sano  were  alike  in  evi- 
dence. She  had  ridden  to  hounds  many  times  on 
the  anise-scented  trail  of  the  West  Chester  Hunt  I 
Exciting  tennis  and  leisurely  golf  had  engaged 
her  attention  on  the  courts  and  greens  of  the 
Merion  Cricket  Club.  She  had  buffeted  "Old 
Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste "  on  the 
beach  at  Cape  May  and  at  Atlantic  City. 

Spiritually  she  was  a  devoted  member  of  the 
Episcopal  Church,  of  the  variety  that  abhors  the 

29 


30  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

word  "  Protestant  '*  in  connection  therewith. 
Altogether  she  reflected  great  credit  upon  her 
pastors  and  masters,  spiritual  and  temporal,  and 
her  up-bringing  in  the  three  departments  of  life 
left  little  to  be  desired. 

Upon  her  graduation  she  had  been  at  once  re- 
ceived and  acclaimed  by  the  "  Assembly  Set,"  of 
Philadelphia,  to  which  indeed  she  belonged  un- 
questioned by  right  of  birth  and  position  —  and 
there  was  no  other  power  under  heaven  by  which 
she  could  have  effected  entrance  therein;  at  least 
that  is  what  the  "  outs  "  thought  of  that  most  ex- 
clusive circle.  The  old  home  of  the  Maitlands 
overlooking  Rittenhouse  Square  had  been  the 
scene  of  her  debut.  In  all  the  refined  and  de- 
corous gayeties  of  Philadelphia's  ultra-fastidious 
society  she  had  participated.  She  had  even  looked 
upon  money  standardized  New  York  in  its  de- 
lirium of  extravagance,  at  least  in  so  far  as  a  se- 
date and  well-born  Philadelphia  family  could 
countenance  such  golden  madness.  During  the 
year  she  had  ranged  like  a  conqueror  —  pardon 
the  masculine  appellation- — between  Palm  Beach 
in  the  South  and  Bar  Harbor  in  the  North. 
Philadelphia  was  proud  of  her,  and  she  was  not 
unknown  in  those  unfortunate  parts  of  the  United 
States  which  lay  without. 

In  all  this  she  had  remained  a  frank,  free,  un- 


The  Joung  Lady  from  Philadelphia    31 

spoiled  young  woman.  Life  was  full  of  zest  for 
her,  and  she  enjoyed  It  with  the  most  un-Penn- 
sylvanian  enthusiasm. 

The  second  summer  after  her  coming  out  found 
her  in  Colorado.  Robert  Maitland  was  one  of 
the  big  men  of  the  west.  He  had  departed  from 
Philadelphia  at  an  early  age  and  had  settled  in 
Colorado  while  it  was  still  in  the  formative 
period.  There  he  had  grown  up  with  the  state. 
The  Philadelphia  Maitlands  could  never  under- 
stand it  or  explain  it.  Bob  Maitland  must  have 
been,  they  argued,  a  reversion  to  an  ancient  type, 
a  throwback  to  some  robber  baron  long  antece- 
dent to  William  Penn.  And  the  speculation  was 
true.  The  blood  of  some  lawless  adventurer  of 
the  past,  discreetly  forgot  by  the  conservative  sec- 
tion of  the  family,  bubbled  in  his  veins  unchecked 
by  the  repressive  atmosphere  of  his  home  and  his 
early  environment. 

He  had  thoroughly  identified  himself  with  his 
new  surroundings  and  had  plunged  Into  all  the 
activities  of  the  west.  During  one  period  in  his 
life  he  had  actually  served  as  sheriff  of  one  of 
the  border  counties,  and  it  was  a  rapid  "  bad 
man  "  indeed,  who  enjoyed  any  advantage  over 
him  when  it  came  to  drawing  his  "  gun."  His 
skill  and  daring  had  been  unquestioned.  He  had 
made  a  name  for  himself  which  still  abides,  espe- 


32     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

cially  in  the  mountains  where  things  yet  remained 
almost  as  primitive  as  they  had  been  from  the 
beginning. 

His  fame  had  been  accompanied  by  fortune, 
too;  the  cattle  upon  a  thousand  hills  were  his, 
the  treasures  of  mines  of  fabulous  richness  were 
at  his  command.  He  lived  in  Denver  in  one  of 
the  greatest  of  the  bonanza  palaces  on  the  hills 
of  that  city,  confronting  the  snow-capped  moun- 
tain range.  For  the  rest  he  held  stock  in  all  sorts 
of  corporations,  was  a  director  in  numerous  con- 
cerns and  so  on — -the  reader  can  supply  the 
usual  catalogue,  they  are  all  alike.  He  had  mar- 
ried late  in  life  and  was  the  father  of  two  little 
girls  and  a  boy,  the  oldest  sixteen  and  the 
youngest  ten. 

Going  east,  which  he  did  not  love,  on  an  infre- 
quent business  trip  he  had  renewed  his  acquain- 
tance with  his  brother  and  the  one  ewe  lamb  of 
his  brother's  flock,  to  wit,  the  aforementioned 
Enid.  He  had  been  struck,  as  everybody  was, 
by  the  splendid  personality  of  the  girl  and  had 
striven  earnestly  to  disabuse  her  mind  of  the  prev- 
alent idea  that  there  was  nothing  much  worth 
while  on  the  continent  beyond  the  AUeghanies  ex- 
cept scenery. 

"  What  you  need,  Enid,  is  a  ride  across  the 
plains,  a  sight  of  real  mountains,  beside  which 


The  Young  Lady  from  Philadelphia    33' 

these  little  foothills  In  Pennsylvania  that  people 
back  here  make  so  much  of  wouldn't  be  noticed. 
You  want  to  get  some  of  the  spirited  glorious 
freedom  of  the  west  into  your  conservative 
stralght-laced  little  body!" 

"  In  my  day,  Robert,"  reprovingly  remarked 
his  brother,  Enid's  father,  "  freedom  was  the  last 
thing  a  young  lady  gently  born  and  delicately 
nurtured  would  have  coveted." 

"  Your  day  is  past,  Steve,"  returned  the 
younger  Maltland  with  shocking  carelessness. 
"  Freedom  is  what  every  woman  desires  now, 
especially  when  she  is  married.  You  are  not  in 
love  with  anybody  are  you,  Enid?  " 

"  With  not  a  soul,"  frankly  replied  the  girl, 
greatly  amused  at  the  colloquy  between  the  two 
men,  who  though  both  mothered  by  the  samei 
woman  were  as  dissimilar  as  —  what  shall  I  say,; 
the  east  Is  from  the  west?     Let  It  go  at  that. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  her  uncle,  relieved  ap- 
parently. "  I  will  take  you  out  west  and  intro- 
duce you  to  some  real  men  and  — •-  " 

"  If  I  thought  It  possible,"  Interposed  Mr. 
Stephen  Maltland  in  his  most  austere  and  digni- 
fied manner,  "  that  my  daughter,"  with  a  per- 
ceptible emphasis  on  the  "  my,"  as  if  he  and  not 
the  daughter  were  the  principal  being  under  con- 
sideration, "  should  ever  so  far  forget  what  be- 


34     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

longs  to  her  station  in  life  and  her  family  as  to 
allow  her  affections  to  become  engaged  by  any- 
one who,  from  his  birth  and  up-brlnglng  In  the 
er  —  ah  — unlicensed  atmosphere  of  the  western 
country  would  be  persona  non  grata  to  the  digni- 
fied society  of  this  ancient  city  and  —  ** 

*'  Nonsense,"  interrupted  the  younger  brother 
bluntly.  "  You  have  lived  here  wrapped  up  in 
yourselves  and  your  dinky  little  town  so  long 
that  mental  asphyxiation  is  threatening  you 
all." 

"  I  will  thank  you,  Robert,"  said  his  brother 
with  something  approaching  the  manner  in  which 
he  would  have  repelled  a  blasphemy,  ''  not  to  re- 
fer to  Philadelphia  as  —  er— ^  What  was  your 
most  extraordinary  word?" 

"  *  Dinky,'  if  my  recollection  serves." 

"  Ah,  precisely.  I  am  not  sure  as  to  the  mean- 
ing of  the  term  but  I  conceive  it  to  be  something 
opprobrious.  You  can  say  what  you  like  about 
me  and  mine,  but  Philadelphia,  no." 

"  Oh,  the  town's  right  enough,"  returned  his 
brother,  not  at  all  impressed.  "  Pm  talking 
about  people  now.  There  are  just  as  fine  men 
and  women  in  the  west  as  In  New  York  or 
Philadelphia." 

"  I  am  sure  you  'don't  mean  to  be  offensive, 
Robert,   but   really  the   association   of   ideas   in 


The  Young  Lady  from  Philadelphia    35: 

your  mention  of  us  with  that  common  and  vul- 
gar New  York  is  er  —  unpleasant,"  fairly  shud- 
dered the  elder  Maltland. 

"  I'm  only  urging  you  to  recognize  the  quality 
of  the  western  people.  I  dare  say  they  are  of  a 
finer  type  than  the  average  here." 

"  From  your  standpoint,  no  doubt,"  continued 
his  brother  severely  and  somewhat  wearily  as  if 
the  matter  were  not  worth  all  this  argument. 
"  All  that  I  want  of  them  Is  that  they  stay  In  the 
west  where  they  belong  and  not  strive  to  mingle 
with  the  east;  there  Is  a  barrier  between  us  and 
them  which  It  Is  not  well  to  cross.  To  permit 
any  Intermixtures  of  er  —  race  or  —  " 

"  The  people  out  there  are  white,  Steve,"  in- 
terrupted his  brother  sardonically.  "  I  wasn't 
contemplating  Introducing  Enid  here  to  Chinese, 
or  Negroes,  or  Indians,  or  —  " 

"  Don't  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Stephen  Maltland, 
stubbornly  waving  aside  this  sarcastic  and  Irrele- 
vant comment,  "  from  your  very  conversation 
the  vast  gulf  that  there  Is  between  you  and  me? 
Although  you  had  every  advantage  In  life  that 
birth  can  give  you,  we  are  —  I  mean  you  have 
changed  so  greatly,"  he  had  quickly  added,  loath 
to  offend. 

But  he  mistook  the  light  in  his  brother's  eyes, 
it  was  a  twinkle  not  a  flash.     Robert  Maltland 


36     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

laughed,  laughed  with  what  his  brother  conceived 
to  be  indecorous  bolsterousness. 

"  How  little  you  know  of  the  bone  and  sinew 
of  this  country,  Steve,"  he  exclaimed  presently. 
Robert  Maitland  could  not  comprehend  how  it 
irritated  his  stately  brother  to  be  called  **  Steve.'* 
Nobody  ever  spoke  of  him  but  as  Stephen  Mait- 
land— '"'But  Lord,  I  don't  blame  you,"  con- 
tinued the  Westerner.  "  Any  man  whose  vision 
is  barred  by  a  foothill  couldn't  be  expected  to 
know  much  of  the  main  range  and  what's  be- 
yond." 

"  There  isn't  any  danger  of  my  falling  in  love 
with  anybody,"  said  Enid  at  last,  with  all  the 
confidence  of  two  triumphant  social  seasons.  "  I 
think  I  must  be  immune  even  to  dukes,"  she  said 
gayly. 

"  I    referred    to    worthy    young    Americans 
of' — ^"  began  her  father  who,  to  do  him  justice, 
was  so  satisfied  with  his  own  position  that  no 
foreign    title    dazzled    him    in    the    least    de- 
gree. 

"  Rittenhouse  Square,"  cut  in  Robert  Maitland 
with  amused  sarcasm.  "  Well,  Enid,  you  seem  to 
have  run  the  gamut  of  the  east  pretty  thoroughly, 
come  out  and  spend  the  summer  with  me  in 
Colorado.  My  Denver  house  is  open  to  you,  we 
have  a  ranch  amid  the  foothills,  or  if  you  are 


The  Young  Lady  from  Philadelphia    37 

game  we  can  break  away  from  civilization  en- 
tirely and  find  some  unexplored,  unknown  caiion 
in  the  heart  of  the  mountains  and  camp  there. 
We'll  get  back  to  nature,  which  seems  to  be  impos- 
sible in  Philadelphia,  and  you  will  see  things  and 
learn  things  that  you  will  never  see  or  learn  any- 
where else.  It'll  do  you  good,  too ;  from  what  I 
hear,  you  have  been  going  the  pace  and  those 
cheeks  of  yours  are  a  little  too  pale  for  so  splendid 
a  girl,  you  look  too  tired  under  the  eyes  for 
youth  and  beauty." 

"  I  believe  I  am  not  very  fit,''  said  the  girl, 
"  and  if  father  will  permit  —  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Stephen  Mait- 
land.  "  You  are  your  own  mistress  anyway,  and 
having  no  mother  "  —  Enid's  mother  had  died 
in  her  infancy  —  "  I  suppose  that  I  could  not  in- 
terfere or  object  if  I  wished  to,  but  no  marrying 
or  giving  in  marriage :  Remember  that." 

"  Nonsense,  father,"  answered  the  young 
woman  lightly.  **  I  am  not  anxious  to  assume 
the  bonds  of  wedlock." 

"  Well,  that  setdes  it,"  said  Robert  Maitland. 
"  We'll  give  you  a  royal  good  time.  I  must  run 
up  to  New  York  and  Boston  for  a  few  days,  but 
I  shall  be  back  in  a  week  and  I  can  pick  you  up 
then." 

"  What  is  the  house  in  Denver,  is  it  er  —  may 


38  [The  Chalice  of  Courage 

I  asK,  provided  with  all  modern  conveniences  and 
*r-,  '*  began  the  elder  Maitland  nervously. 

Robert  Maitland  laughed. 

**  What  do  you  take  us  for,  Steve  ?  Do  you  ever 
read  the  western  newspapers?  " 

*'  I  confess  that  I  have  not  given  much  thought 
to  the  west  since  I  studied  geography  and  —  The 
Philadelphia  Ledger  has  been  thought  sufficient 
for  the  family  since  ■ — ■  " 

"  Gracious !  '*  exclaimed  Maitland.  "  The 
house  cost  half  %  million  dollars  if  you  must 
know  it,  and  if  there  is  anything  that  modern 
science  can  contribute  to  comfort  and  luxury  that 
isn't  in  it,  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  Shall  it  be 
the  house  in  Denver,  or  the  ranch,  or  a  real  camp 
in  the  wilds,  Enid?  " 

"  First  the  house  in  Denver,"  said  Enid,  "  and 
then  the  ranch  and  then  the  mountains." 

"  Right  O !     That  shall  be  the  program." 

"iWIll  my  daughter's  life  be  perfectly  safe 
from  the  Cowboys,  Indians  and  Desperadoes  ?  " 
^  "  Quite  safe,"  answered  Robert,  with  deep 
^  gravity.  "  The  cowboys  no  longer  shoot  up  the 
city  and  it  has  been  years  since  the  Indians  have 
held  up  even  a  trolley  car.  The  only  real  des- 
perado in  my  acquaintance  is  the  mildest,  gentlest 
old  stage  driver  in  the  west." 

**  Do  you  keep  up  an  acquaintance  with  men 


The  Young  Lady  from  Philadelphia    39 

of  that  class,  still?"  asked  his  brother  In  great 
surprise. 

"lYou  know  I  was  Sheriff  in  a  border  county 
for  a  number  of  years  and  r— ^ " 

"  But  you  must  surely  have  withdrawn  from 
all  such  society  now.'' 

"  Out  west,"  said  Robert  Maltland,  "  when  we 
Know  a  man  and  like  him,  when  we  have  slept  by 
him  on  the  plains,  ridden  with  him  through  the 
mountains,  fought  with  him  against  some  border 
terror,  some  bad  man  thirsting  to  kill,  we  don't 
■forget  him,  we  don't  cut  his  acquaintance,  and  It 
Jdoesn't  make  any  difference  whether  the  one  or 
the  other  of  us  Is  rich  or  poor.  I  have  friends 
who  can't  frame  a  grammatical  sentence,  who 
habitually  eat  with  their  knives,  yet  who  are  abso- 
lutely devoted  to  me  and  I  to  them.  The  man  Is 
ithe  thing  out  there."  He  smiled  and  turned  to 
OEnld.  "  Always  excepting  the  supremacy  of 
woman,"  he  added. 

"How  fascinating  I  "  exclaimed  the  girl.  "I 
want  to  go  there  right  away." 

And  this  was  the  train  of  events  which  brought 
about  the  change.  Behold  the  young  lady  astride 
of  a  horse  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  In  a  divided 
skirt,  that  fashion  prevalent  elsewhere  not  having 
been  accepted  by  the  best  equestriennes  of  Phila- 
delphia.    She  was  riding  ahead  of  a  lumbering 


40     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

mountain  wagon,  surrounded  by  other  riders, 
which  was  loaded  with  baggage,  drawn  by  four 
sturdy  broncos  and  followed  by  a  number  of  ob- 
stinate little  burros  at  present  unencumbered  with 
packs  which  would  be  used  when  they  got  further 
from  civilization  and  the  way  was  no  longer 
practicable  for  anything  on  wheels. 

Miss  Enid  Maltland  was  clad  in  a  way  that 
would  have  caused  her  father  a  stroke  of  apo- 
plexy if  he  could  have  been  suddenly  made  aware 
of  her  dress,  If  she  had  burst  into  the  drawing- 
room  without  announcement  for  Instance.  Her 
skirt  was  distinctly  short,  she  wore  heavy  hob- 
nailed shoes  that  laced  up  to  her  knees,  she  had 
on  a  bright  blue  sweater,  a  kind  of  a  cap  known 
as  a  tam-o-shanter  was  pinned  above  her  glori- 
ous hair,  which  was  closely  braided  and  wound 
around  her  head.  She  wore  a  silk  handkerchief 
loosely  tied  around  her  neck,  a  knife  and  revolver 
hung  at  her  belt,  a  little  watch  was  strapped  to 
one  wrist,  a  handsomely  braided  quirt  dangled 
from  the  other,  a  pair  of  spurs  adorned  her  heels 
and,  most  discomposing  fact  of  all,  by  her  side 
rode  a  handsome  and  dashing  cavalier. 

How  Mr.  James  Armstrong  might  have  ap- 
peared in  the  conventional  black  and  white  of 
evening  clothes  was  not  quite  clear  to  her,  for 
she  had  as  yet  never  beheld  him  In  that  obliterat- 


The  Young  Lady  from  Philadelphia    41 

ing  raiment,  but  in  the  habit  of  the  west,  riding 
trousers,  heavy  boots  that  laced  to  the  knees,  blue 
shirt,  his  head  covered  by  a  noble  "  Stetson," 
mounted  on  the  fiery  restive  bronco  which  he 
rode  to  perfection,  he  was  ideal.  Alas  for  the 
vanity  of  human  proposition!  Mr.  James  Arm- 
strong, friend  and  protege  these  many  years  of 
Mr.  Robert  Maitland,  mine  owner  and  cattle 
man  on  a  much  smaller  scale  than  his  older 
friend,  was  desperately  in  love  with  Enid  Mait- 
land, and  Enid,  swept  off  her  feet  by  a  wooing 
which  began  with  precipitant  ardor  so  soon  as  he 
laid  eyes  on  her,  was  more  profoundly  moved  by 
his  suit,  or  pursuit,  than  she  could  have  imagined. 

Omne  ignotum  pro  magnificof 

She  had  been  wooed  in  the  conventional  fashion 
many  times  and  oft,  on  the  sands  of  Palm  Beach, 
along  the  cliffs  of  Newport,  in  the  romantic  glens 
of  Mount  Desert,  in  the  old  fashioned  drawing- 
room  overlooking  Rittenhouse  Square.  She  had 
been  proposed  to  In  motor  cars,  on  the  decks  of 
yachts  and  once  even  while  riding  to  hounds,  but 
there  had  been  a  touch  of  sameness  about  It  all. 
Never  had  she  been  made  love  to  with  the  head- 
long gallantry,  with  the  dashing  precipitation  of 
the  west.  It  had  swept  her  from  her  moorings. 
She  found  almost  before  she  was  aware  of  it  that 
her  past  experience  now  stood  her  In  little  stead. 


42  [The  Chalice  of  Courage 

She  awoke  to  a  sudden  realization  of  the  fact 
that  she  !v^^as  practically  pledged  to  James  Arm- 
strong after  an  acquaintance  of  three  weeks  in 
Denver  and  on  the  ranch. 

Business  of  the  most  important  and  critical 
nature  required  Armstrong's  presence  east  at 
this  juncture,  and  willy-nilly  there  was  no  way 
he  could  put  off  his  departure  longer.  He  had 
to  leave  the  girl  with  an  uneasy  conscience  that 
though  he  had  her  half-way  promise,  he  had  her 
but  half-way  won.  He  had  snatched  the  ulti- 
mate day  from  his  business  demands  to  ride  with 
her  on  the  first  stage  of  her  journey  to  the  moun- 
tains. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  GAME  PLAYED  IN  THE  USUAL  WAY 

The  road  on  which  they  advanced  into  the 
mountains  was  well  made  and  well  kept  up. 
The  canon  through  the  foothills  was  not  very 
deep  — ■■  for  Colorado  —  and  the  ascent  was 
gentle.  Naturally  it  wound  in  every  direction 
following  the  devious  course  of  the  river  which 
it  frequently  crossed  from  one  side  to  the  other 
on  rude  log  bridges.  A  brisk  gallop  of  a  half  mile 
or  so  on  a  convenient  stretch  of  comparatively  level 
going  put  the  two  in  the  lead  far  ahead  of  the 
lumbering  wagon  and  out  of  sight  of  those  others 
of  the  party  who  had  elected  to  go  a  horseback. 
There  was  perhaps  a  tacit  agreement  among  the 
latter  not  to  break  in  upon  this  growing  friend- 
ship or,  more  frankly,  not  to  interfere  In  a  de- 
veloping love  affair. 

The  canon  broadened  here  and  there  at  long 
intervals  and  ranch  houses  were  found  in  every 
clearing,  but  these  were  few  and  far  between  and 
for  the  most  part  Armstrong  and  Enid  Maitland 
rode  practically  alone  save  for  the  passing  of  an 
occasional  lumber  wagon. 

43 


if4  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  You  can't  think,"  began  the  man,  as 
they  drew  rein  after  a  splendid  gallop  and  the 
somewhat  tired  horses  readily  subsided  into 
a  walk,  "  how  I  hate  to  go  back  and  leave 
you." 

"  And  you  can't  think  how  loath  I  am  to  have 
you  return,"  the  girl  flashed  out  at  him  with  a 
sidelong  glance  from  her  bright  blue  eyes  and  a 
witching  smile  from  her  scarlet  lips. 

"  Enid  Maltland,"  said  the  man,  "  you  Know 
I  just  worship  you.  I'd  like  to  sweep  you  out  of 
your  saddle,  lift  you  to  the  bow  of  mine  and  ride 
away  with  you.  I  can't  keeg  my  hands  off  you, 
I  —  " 

Before  she  realized  what  he  would  be  about  he 
swerved  his  horse  toward  her,  his  arm  went 
around  her  suddenly.  Taken  completely  off  her 
guard  she  could  make  no  resistance.  Indeed  she 
scarcely  knew  what  to  expect  until  he  crushed  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her,  almost  roughly,  full  on  the 
lips. 

"How  dare  youl  "  cried  the  girl,  her  face 
aflame,  freeing  herself  at  last,  and  swinging  her 
own  horse  almost  to  the  edge  of  the  road  which 
here  ran  on  an  excavation  some  fifty  feet  above 
the  river. 

"How  dare  I?"  laughed  the  audacious  man, 
apparently  no  whit  abashed  by  her  indignation. 


The  Game  Played  in  the  Usual  Way     45 

**  When  I  think  of  my  opportunity  I  am  amazed 
at  my  moderation." 

"Your  opportunity,  your  moderation?" 

"  Yes ;  when  I  had  you  helpless  I  took  but  one 
kiss,  I  might  have  held  you  longer  and  taken  a 
hundred." 

"  And  by  what  right  did  you  take  that  one?  " 
haughtily  demanded  the  outraged  young  woman, 
looking  at  him  beneath  level  brows  while  the  color 
slowly  receded  from  her  face.  She  had  never 
been  kissed  by  a  man  other  than  a  blood  relation 
in  her  life  —  remember,  suspicious  reader,  that 
she  was  from  Philadelphia  • —  and  she  resented  this 
sudden  and  unauthorized  caress  with  every  atom 
and  Instinct  of  her  still  somewhat  conventional 
being. 

"But  aren't  you  half-way  engaged  to  me?" 
he  pleaded  in  justification,  seeing  the  unwonted 
seriousness  with  which  she  had  received  his  im- 
pudent advance.  "  Didn't  you  agree  to  give  me 
a  chance? " 

"  I  did  say  that  I  liked  you  very  much,"  she 
admitted,  "  no  man  better,  and  that  I  thought  you 
might  —  " 

"Well,  then  — ''he  began. 

But  she  would  not  be  interrupted. 

"I  did  not  mean  that  you  should  enjoy  all 
the   privileges    of   a    conquest   before    you    had 


46  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

won  me.     I  will  thanic  you  not  to  do  that  again, 


sir." 


"  It  seems  to  have  had  a  very  different  effect 
upon  you  than  It  did  upon  me,"  replied  the  man 
fervently.  "  I  loved  you  before,  but  now,  since  I 
have  kissed  you,  I  worship  you." 

"  It  hasn't  affected  me  that  way,"  retorted  the 
girl  promptly,  her  face  still  frowning  and  Indig- 
nant.    "  Not  at  all,  and  —  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Enid,"  pleaded  the  other.  **  I 
just  couldn't  help  It.  You  were  so  beautiful  I  had 
to.  I  took  the  chance.  Tou  are  not  accustomed 
to  our  ways." 

"Is  this  your  habit  In  your  love  affairs?" 
asked  the  girl  swiftly  and  not  without  a  spice  of 
feminine  malice. 

"  I  never  had  any  love  affairs  before,"  he  re- 
plied with  a  ready  masculine  mendacity,  "  at  least 
none  worth  mentioning.  But  you  see  this  Is  the 
west,  we  have  gained  what  we  have  by  demand- 
ing every  Inch  that  nature  offers,  and  then  claim- 
ing the  all.  That's  the  way  we  play  the  game 
out  here  and  that's  the  way  we  win." 

"  But  I  have  not  yet  learned  to  play  the  *  game,* 
as  you  call  It,  by  any  such  rules,"  returned  the 
young  woman  determinedly,  "  and  it  is  not  the 
way  to  win  me  if  I  am  the  stake." 

"  What  is  the  way?  "  asked  the  man  anxiously. 


The  Game  Played  in  the  Usual  Way     47 

"  Show  me  and  I'll  take  It  no  matter  what  its 
difficulty." 

"  Ah,  for  me  to  point  out  the  way  would  be 
to  play  traitor  to  myself,"  she  answered,  relent- 
ing and  relaxing  a  little  before  his  devoted  woo- 
ing. "  You  must  find  it  without  assistance.  I 
can  only  tell  you  one  thing." 

"And  what  Is  that?" 

"  You  do  not  advance  toward  the  goal  by  such 
actions  as  those  of  a  moment  since." 

"  Look  here,"  said  the  other  suddenly.  "  I 
am  not  ashamed  of  what  I  did,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  pretend  that  I  am,  either." 

"  You  ought  to  be,"  severely. 

"  Well,  maybe  so,  but  I'm  not.  I  couldn't  help 
It  any  more  than  I  could  help  loving  you  the 
minute  I  saw  you.     Put  yourself  in  my  place." 

"  But  I  am  not  in  your  place,  and  I  can't  put 
myself  there.  I  do  not  wish  to.  If  It  be  true, 
as  you  say,  that  you  have  grown  to  —  care  so 
much  for  me  and  so  quickly  —  " 

"If  it  be  true?"  came  the  sharp  Interruption 
as  the  man  bent  toward  her  fairly  devouring  her 
with  his  bold,  ardent  gaze. 

"  Well,  since  It  Is  true,"  she  admitted  under  the 
compulsion  of  his  protest,  "  that  fact  Is  the  only 
possible  excuse  for  your  action." 

"  You  find  some  justification  for  me,  then  I  " 


48     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  No,  only  a  possibility,  but  whether  it  be  true 
or  not,  I  do  not  feel  that  way  —  yet." 

There  w^as  a  saving  grace  in  that  last  word, 
which  gave  him  a  little  heart.  He  would  have 
spoken,  but  she  suffered  no  interruption,  saying: 

"  I  have  been  wooed  before,  but  —  " 

"  True,  unless  the  human  race  has  become  sud- 
denly blind,"  he  said  softly  under  his  breath. 

"  But  never  in  such  ungentle  ways." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  never  run  up  against  a 
real  red-blooded  man  like  me  before." 

"  If  red-blooded  be  evidenced  mainly  by  lack 
of  self-control,  perhaps  I  have  not.  Yet  there 
are  men  whom  I  have  met  who  would  not  need  to 
apologize  for  their  qualities  even  to  you,  Mr. 
James  Armstrong." 

"  Don't  say  that.  Evidently  I  make  but  poor 
progress  in  my  wooing.  Never  have  I  met  with 
a  woman  quite  like  you."  —  And  in  that  indeed 
lay  some  of  her  charm,  and  she  might  have  re- 
plied in  exactly  the  same  language  and  with  ex- 
actly the  same  meaning  to  him. — ^ "  I  am  no 
longer  a  boy.  I  must  be  fifteen  years  older  than 
you  are,  for  I  am  thirty-five." 

The  difference  between  their  years  was  not 
quite  so  great  as  he  declared,  but  womanlike  the 
girl  let  the  statement  pass  unchallenged. 

"  And  I  wouldn't  Insult  your  intelligence  by 


The  Game  Played  in  the  Usual  Way    '49; 

saying  you  are  the  only  woman  that  I  have  ever 
•made  love  to,  but  there  is  a  vast  difference  be- 
tween making  love  to  a  woman  and  loving  one. 
I  have  just  found  that  out  for  the  first  time.  I 
marvel  at  the  past,  and  I  am  ashamed  of  it,  but 
I  thank  God  that  I  have  been  saved  for  this  op- 
portunity. I  want  to  win  you,  and  I  am  going  to 
do  it,  too.  In  many  things  I  don't  match  up  with 
the  people  with  whom  you  train.  I  was  born  out 
here,  and  I've  made  myself.  There  are  things 
that  have  happened  in  the  making  that*I  am  not 
especially  proud  of,  and  I  am  not  at  all  satisfied 
with  the  results,  especially  since  I  have  met  you. 
The  better  I  know  you  the  less  pleased  I  am  with 
Jim  Armstrong,  but  there  are  possibilities  in  me, 
I  rather  believe,  and  with  you  for  inspiration. 
Heavens !  "  —  the  man  flung  out  his  hand  with  a 
fine  gesture  of  determination.  "  They  say  that 
the  east  and  west  don't  naturally  mingle,  but  It's  a 
lie,  you  and  I  can  beat  the  world." 

The  woman  thrilled  to  his  gallant  wooing. 
Any  woman  would  have  done  so,  some  of  them' 
would  have  lost  their  heads,  but  Enid  Maitland 
was  an  exceedingly  cool  young  person,  for  she 
was  not  quite  swept  off  her  feet,  and  did  not  quite 
lose  her  balance. 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  say  things  like  that,"  she 
answered.     "  Nobody    quite    like    you    has    ever 


'50  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

made  love  to  me,  and  certainly  not  in  your  way, 
and  that's  the  reason  I  have  given  you  a  half-way 
promise  to  think  about  it.  I  was  sorry  that  you 
could  not  be  with  us  on  this  adventure,  but  now 
I  am  rather  glad,  especially  if  the  even  temper 
of  my  way  is  to  be  interrupted  by  anything  like 
the  outburst  of  a  few  moments  since.'' 

"  I  am  glad,  too,"  admitted  the  man.  "  For  I 
declare  I  couldn't  help  it.  If  I  have  to  be  with 
you  either  you  have  got  to  be  mine,  or  else  you 
would  have  to  decide  that  it  could  never  be,  and 
then  I'd  go  off  and  fight  it  out.'* 

*'  Leave  me  to  myself,"  said  the  girl  earnestly, 
"  for  a  little  while ;  it's  best  so.  I  would  not  take 
the  finest,  noblest  man  on  earth  — ■■  " 

"  And  I  am  not  that." 

*'  Unless  I  loved  him.  There  is  something 
very  attractive  about  your  personality.  I  don't 
know  in  my  heart  whether  it  is  that  or  —  " 

"  Good,"  said  the  man,  as  she  hesitated. 
"  That's  enough,"  he  gathered  up  the  reins  and 
whirled  his  horse  suddenly  in  the  road,  ''  I  am  go- 
ing back.  I'll  wait  for  your  return  to  Denver, 
and  then — ^" 

"That's  best,"  answered  the  girl. 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  to  him,  leaning 
backward.  If  he  had  been  a  different  kind  of  a 
man  he  would  have  kissed  it,  as  it  was  he  took  it 


The  Game  Played  in  the  Usual  Way     51! 

in  his  own  hand  and  almost  crushed  it  with  a 
fierce  grip. 

"  We'll  shake  on  that,  little  girl,"  he  said,  and 
then  without  a  backward  glance  he  put  spurs  to 
his  horse  and  galloped  furiously  down  the  road. 

No,  she  decided  then  and  there,  she  did  not  love 
him,  not  yet.  Whether  she  ever  would  she  could 
not  tell.  And  yet  she  was  half  bound  to  him. 
The  recollection  of  his  kiss  was  not  altogether  a 
pleasant  memory;  he  had  not  done  himself  any 
good  by  that  bold  assault  upon  her  modesty,  that 
reckless  attem.pt  to  rifle  the  treasure  of  her  lips. 
No  man  had  ever  really  touched  her  heart, 
although  many  had  engaged  her  interest.  Her 
experiences  therefore  were  not  definitive  or  conclu- 
sive. If  she  had  truly  loved  James  Armstrong, 
in  spite  of  all  that  she  might  have  said,  she  would 
have  thrilled  to  the  remembrance  of  that  wild 
caress.  The  chances,  therefore,  were  somewhat 
heavily  against  him  that  morning  as  he  rode  hope- 
fully down  the  trail  alone. 

His  experiences  in  love  affairs  were  much 
greater  than  hers.  She  was  by  no  means  the  first 
woman  he  had  kissed  —  remember  suspicious 
reader  that  he  was  not  from  Philadelphia !  — hers 
were  not  the  first  ears  into  which  he  had  poured 
passionate  protestations.  He  was  neither  better 
nor   worse    than   most   men,    perhaps   he    fairly 


52     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

enough  represented  the  average,  but  surely  fate 
had  something  better  In  store  for  such  a  superb 
woman  —  a  girl  of  such  attainments  and  such  In- 
finite possibilities,  she  must  mate  higher  than  with 
the  average  man.  Perhaps  there  was  a  sub-con- 
sciousness of  this  In  her  mind  as  she  silently 
waited  to  be  overtaken  by  the  rest  of  the  party. 

There  were  curious  glances  and  strange  specu- 
lations In  that  little  company  as  they  saw  her 
sitting  her  horse  alone.  A  few  moments  before 
James  Armstrong  had  passed  them  at  a  gallop, 
he  had  waved  his  hand  as  he  dashed  by  and  had 
smiled  at  them,  hope  giving  him  a  certain  assur- 
ance, although  his  confidence  was  scarcely  war- 
ranted by  the  facts. 

His  demeanor  was  not  in  consonance  with 
Enid's  somewhat  grave  and  somewhat  troubled 
present  aspect.  She  threw  off  her  preoccupation 
instantly  and  easily,  however,  and  joined  readily 
enough  in  the  merry  conversation  of  the  way. 

Mr.  Robert  Maitland,  as  Armstrong  had  said, 
had  known  him  from  a  boy.  There  were  things 
in  his  career  of  which  Maitland  did  not  and  could 
not  approve,  but  they  were  of  the  past,  he  re- 
flected, and  Armstrong  was  after  all  a  pretty  good 
sort.  Mr.  Maitland's  standards  were  not  at  all 
those  of  his  Philadelphia  brother,  but  they  were 
very  high.     His  experiences  of  men  had  been  dif- 


The  Game  Played  in  the  Usual  Way    53 

ferent;  he  thought  that  Armstrong,  having  cer- 
tainly by  this  time  reached  years  of  discretion, 
could  be  safely  entrusted  with  the  precious 
treasure  of  the  young  girl  who  had  been  com- 
mitted to  his  care,  and  for  whom  his  affection 
grew  as  his  knowledge  of  and  acquaintanceship 
with  her  Increased. 

As  for  Mrs.  Maltland  and  the  two  girls  and 
the  youngster,  they  were  Armstrong's  devoted 
friends.  They  knew  nothing  about  his  past.  In- 
deed there  were  things  In  it  of  which  Maltland 
himself  was  Ignorant,  and  which  had  they  been 
known  to  him  might  have  caused  him  to  withhold 
even  his  tentative  acquiescence  In  the  possibilities. 

Most  of  these  things  were  known  to  old  Kirkby 
who  with  masterly  skill,  amusing  nonchalance 
and  amazing  profanity,  albeit  most  of  It  under  his 
breath  lest  he  shock  the  ladies,  tooled  along  the 
four  nervous  excited  broncos  who  drew  the  big 
supply  wagon.  Kirkby  was  Maitland's  oldest 
and  most  valued  friend.  He  had  been  the  lat- 
ter's  deputy  sheriff,  he  had  been  a  cowboy  and  a 
lumberman,  a  mighty  hunter  and  a  successful 
miner,  and  now  although  he  had  acquired  a  rea- 
sonable competence,  and  had  a  nice  little  wife  and 
a  pleasant  home  In  the  mountain  village  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  caiion,  he  drove  stage  for  pleasure 
rather  than  for  profit.     He  had  given  over  his 


54  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

daily  twenty-five  mile  jaunt  from  Morrison  to 
(Troutdale  to  other  hands  for  a  short  space  that 
he  might  spend  a  little  time  with  his  old  friend 
and  the  family,  who  were  all  greatly  attached  to 
him,  on  this  outing. 

Enid  Maitland,  a  girl  of  a  kind  that  Kirkby 
had  never  seen  before,  had  won  the  old  man's 
heart  during  the  weeks  spent  on  the  Maitland 
ranch.  He  had  grown  fond  of  her,  and  he  did 
not  think  that  Mr.  James  Armstrong  merited 
that  which  he  evidently  so  overwhelmingly  de- 
sired. Kirkby  was  well  along  in  years,  but  he 
was  quite  capable  of  playing  a  man's  game  for  all 
that,  and  he  intended  to  play  it  in  this  Instance. 

Nobody  scanned  Enid  Maitland's  face  more 
closely  than  he,  sitting  humped  up  on  the  front 
seat  of  the  wagon,  one  foot  on  the  high  brake, 
his  head  sunk  almost  to  the  level  of  his  knee,  his 
long  whip  in  his  hand,  his  keen  and  somewhat 
fierce  brown  eyes  taking  in  every  detail  of  what 
was  going  on  about  him.  Indeed  there  was  but 
little  that  came  before  him  that  old  Kirkby 
did  not  see. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    STORY   AND   THE    LETTERS 

Imagine,  if  you  please,  the  forest  primeval;  yes, 
the  murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks  of  the 
poem  as  well,  by  the  side  of  a  rapidly  rushing 
mountain  torrent  fed  by  the  eternal  snows  of  the 
lofty  peaks  of  the  great  range.  A  level  stretch 
of  grassy  land  where  a  mountain  brook  joined  the 
creek  was  dotted  with  clumps  of  pines  and  great 
boulders  rolled  down  from  the  everlasting  hills 
—  half  an  acre  of  open  clearing.  On  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  brook  the  canon  wall  rose  almost 
sheer  for  perhaps  five  hundred  feet,  ending  in 
jagged,  needle-edged  pinnacles  of  rock,  sharp, 
picturesque  and  beautiful.  A  thousand  feet 
above  ran  the  timber  line,  and  four  thousand 
feet  above  that  the  crest  of  the  greatest  peak  In 
the  main  range. 

The  white  tents  of  the  little  encampment  which 
had  gleamed  so  brightly  In  the  clear  air  and  radi- 
ant sunshine  of  Colorado,  now  stood  dim  and 
ghost-like  In  the  red  reflection  of  a  huge  camp 
fire.  It  was  the  evening  of  the  first  day  in  the 
wilderness. 

55 


[56  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

For  two  days  since  leaving  the  wagon,  the 
Maltland  party  with  Its  long  train  of  burros 
heavily  packed,  its  horsemen  and  the  steady 
plodders  on  foot,  had  advanced  Into  unexplored 
and  almost  Inaccessible  retreats  of  the  mountains 
—  Into  the  primitive  Indeed!  In  this  delightful 
spot  they  had  pitched  their  tents  and  the  per- 
manent camp  had  been  made.  Wood  was  abun- 
dant, the  water  at  hand  was  as  cold  as  Ice,  as  clear 
as  crystal  and  as  soft  as  milk.  There  was  pas- 
turage for  the  horses  and  burros  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain  brook.  The  whole  place  was  a 
little  amphitheater  which  humanity  occupied  per- 
haps the  first  time  since  creation. 

Unpacking  the  burros,  setting  up  the  tents, 
making  the  camp,  building  the  fire  had  used  up 
the  late  remainder  of  the  day  which  was  theirs 
when  they  had  arrived.  Opportunity  would 
come  to-morrow  to  explore  the  country,  to  climb 
the  range,  to  try  the  stream  that  tumbled  down 
a  succession  of  waterfalls  to  the  right  of  the  camp 
and  roared  and  rushed  merrily  around  its  feet 
until,  swelled  by  the  volume  of  the  brook,  it  lost 
itself  in  tree-clad  depths  far  beneath.  To-night 
rest  after  labor,  to-morrow  play  after  rest. 

The  evening  meal  was  over.  Enid  could  not 
help  thinking  with  what  scorn  and  contempt  her 
father  would  have  regarded  the  menu,  how  his 


The  Story  and  the  Letters          57 

gorge  would  have  risen  —  hers  too  for  that  mat- 
ter I —  had  it  been  placed  before  him  on  the  old 
colonial  mahogany  of  the  dining-room  In  Phila- 
delphia. But  up  there  in  the  wilds  she  had  eaten 
the  coarse  homely  fare  with  the  zest  and  relish 
of  the  most  seasoned  ranger  of  the  hills.  Anxious 
to  be  of  service,  she  had  burned  her  hands  and 
smoked  her  hair  and  scorched  her  face  by  usurp- 
ing the  functions  of  the  young  ranchman  who  had 
been  brought  along  as  cook,  and  had  actually 
fried  the  bacon  herself!  Imagine  a  goddess 
with  a  frying  pan!  The  black  thick  coffee  and 
the  condensed  milk,  drunk  from  the  graniteware 
cup,  had  a  more  delicious  aroma  and  a  more  de- 
lightful taste  than  the  finest  Mocha  and  Java  In 
the  daintiest  porcelain  of  France.  Optimum 
condimentiim.  The  girl  was  frankly,  ravenously 
hungry,  the  air,  the  altitude,  the  exertion,  the  ex- 
citement made  her  able  to  eat  anything  and  en- 
joy It. 

She  was  gloriously  beautiful,  too;  even  her 
brief  experience  In  the  v/est  had  brought  back  the 
missing  roses  to  her  cheek,  and  had  banished  the 
bister  circles  from  beneath  her  eyes.  Robert 
Maitland,  lazily  reclining  propped  up  against  a 
boulder,  his  feet  to  the  fire,  smoking  an  old  pipe 
that  would  have  given  his  brother  the  horrors, 
looked  with    approving   complacency   upon   her, 


gS     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

confident  and  satisfied  that  his  prescription  was 
working  well.  Nor  was  he  the  only  one  who 
looked  at  her  that  way.  Marion  and  Emma, 
his  two  daughters,  worshiped  their  handsome 
Philadelphia  cousin  and  they  sat  one  on  either 
side  of  her  on  the  great  log  lying  between  the 
tents  and  the  fire.  Even  Bob  junior  conde- 
scended to  give  her  approving  glances.  The 
whole  camp  was  at  her  feet.  Mrs.  Maitland 
had  been  greatly  taken  by  her  young  niece. 
iKirkby  made  no  secret  of  his  devotion;  Arthur 
Bradshaw  and  Henry  Phillips,  each  a  "  tender- 
foot "  of  the  extremest  character,  friends  of  busi- 
ness connections  in  the  east,  who  were  spending 
their  vacation  with  Maitland,  shared  in  the  gen- 
eral devotion;  to  say  nothing  of  George  the  cook, 
and  Pete,  the  packer  and  "  horse  wrangler." 

Phillips,  who  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  Enid's, 
had  tried  his  luck  with  her  back  east  and  had 
sense  enough  to  accept  as  final  his  failure. 
Bradshaw  was  a  solemn  young  man  without  that 
keen  sense  of  humor  which  was  characteristic  of 
the  west.  The  others  were  suitably  dressed  for 
adventure,  but  Bradshaw's  idea  of  an  appropriate 
costume  was  distinguished  chiefly  by  long  green 
felt  puttees  which  swathed  his  huge  calves  and 
excited  curious  inquiry  and  ribald  comment  from 
the  surprised  denizens  of  each  mountain  hamlet 


The  Story  and  the  Letters          59 

through  which  they  had  passed,  to  all  of  which 
Bradshaw  remained  serenely  oblivious.  The 
young  man,  who  does  not  enter  especially  Into  this 
tale,  was  a  vestryman  of  the  church  in  his  home 
in  the  suburbs  of  Philadelphia.  His  piety  had 
been  put  to  a  severe  strain  in  the  mountains. 

That  day  everybody  had  to  work  on  the  trail 
—  everybody  wanted  to  for  that  matter.  The 
hardest  labor  consisted  in  the  driving  of  the 
burros.  Unfortunately  there  was  no  good  and 
trained  leader  among  them  through  an  unavoid- 
able mischance,  and  the  campers  had  great  diffi- 
culty, in  keeping  the  burros  on  the  trail.  To 
Arthur  Bradshaw  had  been  allotted  the  most  ob- 
stinate, cross-grained  and  determined  of  the  unruly 
band,  and  old  KIrkby  and  George  paid  particular 
attention  to  instructing  him  in  the  gentle  art  of  ma- 
nipulating him  over  the  rocky  mountain  trail. 

**  Wall,"  said  KIrkby  with  his  somewhat  lan- 
guid, drawling,  nasal  voice,  "  that  there  burro's 
like  a  ship  w'ich  I  often  seed  *em  w'n  I  was  a  kid 
down  east  afore  I  come  out  to  God's  country. 
Nature  has  pervided  'em  with  a  kind  of  a  helium. 
I  remember  if  you  wanted  the  boat  to  go  to  the 
right  you  shoved  the  helium  over  to  the  left. 
Sta'boad  an'  port  was  the  terms  as  I  recollects 
'em.  It's  jest  the  same  with  burros,  you  takes  'em' 
by  the  helium,  that's  by  the  tail,  git  a  good  tight 


6o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

twist  on  It  an'  ef  you  want  him  to  head  to  the 
right,  slew  his  stern  sheets  around  to  the  left,  an' 
you  got  to  be  keerful  you  don't  git  no  kick  back 
w'ich  if  it  lands  on  you  is  worse  'n  the  ree-coil  of 
a  mule." 

Arthur  faithfully  followed  directions,  nar- 
rowly escaping  the  outraged  brute's  small  but 
sharp  pointed  heels  on  occasion.  His  efforts  not 
being  productive  of  much  success,  finally  in  his 
despair  he  resorted  to  brute  strength;  he  would 
pick  the  little  animal  up  bodily,  pack  and  all  —  he 
was  a  man  of  powerful  physique  —  and  swing  him 
around  until  his  head  pointed  in  the  right  direc- 
tion; then  with  a  prayer  that  the  burro  would 
keep  It  there  for  a  few  rods  anyway,  he  would  set 
him  down  and  start  him  all  over  again.  The 
process,  oft  repeated,  became  monotonous  after 
a  while.  Arthur  was  a  slow  thinking  man,  de- 
liberate In  action,  he  stood  it  as  long  as  he  possibly 
could.  Kirkby  who  rode  one  horse  and  led  two 
others,  and  therefore  was  exempt  from  burro 
driving,  observed  him  with  great  interest.  He 
and  Bradshaw  had  strayed  way  behind  the  rest 
of  the  party. 

At  last  Arthur's  resistance,  patience  and  piety, 
strained  to  the  breaking  point,  gave  way  sud- 
denly. Primitive  instincts  rose  to  the  surface 
and  overwhelmed  him  like  a  flood.     He  deliber- 


The  Story  and  the  Letters  6i 

ately  sat  down  on  a  fallen  tree  by  the  side  of  a 
trail,  the  burro  halting  obediently,  turned  and 
faced  him  with  hanging  head  apparently  conscious 
that  he  merited  the  disapprobation  that  was  be- 
ing heaped  upon  him,  for  from  the  desperate 
tenderfoot  there  burst  forth  so  amazing,  so  fluent, 
so  comprehensive  a  torrent  of  assorted  profanity, 
that  even  the  old  past  master  in  objurgation  was 
astonished  and  bewildered.  Where  did  Brad- 
shaw,  mild  and  Inoffensive,  get  it?  His  profi- 
ciency would  have  appalled  his  Rector  and 
amazed  his  fellow  vestrymen.  Not  the  Jackdaw 
of  Rhelms  himself  was  so  cursed  as  that  little 
burro.  KIrkby  sat  on  his  horse  in  fits  of  silent 
laughter  until  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks,  the 
only  outward  and  visible  expression  of  his  mirth. 

Arthur  only  stopped  when  he  had  thoroughly 
emptied  himself,  possibly  of  an  accumulation  of 
years  of  repression. 

"  Wall,"  said  KIrkby,  "  you  sure  do  overmatch 
anyone  I  ever  heard  w'en  it  comes  to  cursin'. 
W'y  you  could  gimme  cards  an'  spades  an'  beat 
me,  an'  I  was  thought  to  have  some  gift  that-a- 
way  in  the  old  days." 

"  I  didn't  begin  to  exhaust  myself,"  answered 
Bradshaw,  shortly,  *'  and  what  I  did  say  didn't 
equal  the  situation.     I'm  going  home." 

"  I   wouldn't    do   that,"    urged   the    old   man. 


62  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

*'  Here,  you  take  the  bosses  an'  Til  tackle  the 
burro." 

"  Gladly,"  said  Arthur.  "  I  would  rather 
ride  an  elephant  and  drive  a  herd  of  them  than 
waste  another  minute  on  this  infernal  little  mule." 

The  story  was  too  good  to  keep,  and  around 
the  camp  fire  that  night  Kirkby  drawled  it  forth. 
There  was  a  freedom  and  easiness  of  intercourse 
in  the  camp,  which  was  natural  enough.  Cook, 
teamster,  driver,  host,  guest,  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, and  I  bad  almost  said  burros,  stood  on  the 
same  level.  They  all  ate  and  lived  together. 
The  higher  up  the  mountain  range  you  go,  the 
deeper  into  the  wilderness  you  plunge,  the  further 
away  from  the  conventional  you  draw,  the  more 
homogeneous  becomes  society  and  the  less  obvious 
are  the  irrational  and  unscientific  distinctions  of 
the  lowlands.  The  guinea  stamp  fades  and  the 
man  and  the  woman  are  pure  gold  or  base  metal 
inherently  and  not  by  any  artificial  standard. 

George,  the  cattle  man  who  cooked,  and  Peter, 
the  horse  wrangler,  who  assisted  Kirkby  In  look- 
ing after  the  stock,  enjoyed  the  episode  uproar- 
iously, and  would  fain  have  had  the  exact  lan- 
guage repeated  to  them,  but  here  Robert  Mait- 
land  demurred,  much  to  Arthur's  relief,  for  he 
was  thoroughly  humiliated  by  the  whole  per- 
formance. 


The  Story  and  the  Letters  63 

It  was  very  pleasant  lounging  around  the  camp 
fire,  and  one  good  story  easily  led  to  another. 

"  It  was  In  these  very  mountains,"  said  Robert 
Maltland,  at  last,  when  his  turn  came,  "  that 
there  happened  one  of  the  strangest  and  most 
terrible  adventures  that  I  ever  heard  of.  I  have 
pretty  much  forgotten  the  lay  of  the  land,  but  I 
think  It  wasn't  very  far  from  here  that  there  Is 
one  of  the  most  stupendous  canons  through  the 
range.  Nobody  ever  goes  there  —  I  don't  sup- 
pose anybody  has  ever  been  there  since.  It  must 
have  been  at  least  five  years  ago  that  It  all 
happened." 

"  It  was  four  years  an'  nine  months,  exactly. 
Bob,"  drawled  old  KIrkby,  who  well  knew  what 
was  coming. 

*'  Yes,  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  I  was  up 
at  Evergreen  at  the  time,  looking  after  timber 
Interests,  when  a  mule  came  wandering  Into  the 
camp,  saddle  and  pack  still  on  his  back." 

"  I  knowed  that  there  mule,"  said  KIrkby. 
"  rd  sold  It  to  a  feller  named  Newbold,  that  had 
come  out  yere  an'  married  Louise  Rosser,  old  man 
Rosser's  daughter,  an'  him  dead,  an'  she  bein'  an 
orphan,  an'  this  feller  bein'  a  fine  young  man  from 
the  east,  not  a  bit  of  a  tenderfoot  nuther,  a  minin' 
engineer  he  called  hisself." 

"  Well,  I  happened  to  be  there  too,  you  remem- 


64  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

ber,"  continued  Maltland,  "  and  they  made  up  a 
party  to  go  and  hunt  up  the  man,  thinking  some- 
thing might  have  happened." 

"  You  see/*  explained  Kirkby,  "  we  was  all 
mighty  fond  of  Louise  Rosser.  The  hull  camp 
was  actin'  like  a  father  to  her  at  the  time,  so  long's 
she  hadn't  nobody  else.  We  was  all  at  the  wed- 
din',  too,  some  six  months  afore.  The  gal  mar- 
ried him  on  her  own  hook,  of  course,  nobody 
makin'  her,  but  somehow  she  didn't  seem 
none  too  happy,  although  Newbold,  who  was 
a  perfect  gent,  treated  her  white  as  far  as  we 
knowed." 

The  old  man  stopped  again  and  resumed  his 
pipe.  ^ 

"  Kirkby,  you  tell  the  story,"  said  Maitland. 

**  Not  me,"  said  Kirkby.  "  I  have  seen  men 
shot  afore  for  takin'  words  out'n  other  men's 
mouths  an'  I  ain't  never  done  that  yit." 

"  You  always  were  one  of  the  most  silent  men 
I  ever  saw,"  laughed  George.  "  Why,  that  day 
Pete  yere  got  shot  accidental  an'  had  his  whole 
breast  tore  out  w'en  we  was  .lumbering  over  on 
Black  Mountain,  all  you  said  was,  *  Wash  him 
off,  put  some  axle  grease  on  him  an'  tie  him  up.'  " 

"  That's  so,"  answered  Pete,  "  an'  there  must 
have  been  somethin'  powerful  soothin'  in  that  axle 
grease,  for  here  I  am,  safe  an'  sound,  to  this  day." 


The  Story  and  the  Letters  6^] 

"  It  takes  an  old  man,"  assented  Kirkby,  *'  to 
know  when  to  keep  his  mouth  shet.  I  learned  it 
at  the  muzzle  of  a  gun/' 

"  I  never  knew  before,"  laughed  Maitland, 
"  how  still  a  man  you  can  be.  Well,  to  resume 
the  story,  having  nothing  to  do,  I  went  out  with 
the  posse  the  sheriff  gathered  up  —  " 

"Him  not  thinkin'  there  had  been  any  foul 
play,"  ejaculated  the  old  man. 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"  Well,  what  happened.  Uncle  Bob,"  inquired 
Enid. 

"  Just  you  wait,"  said  young  Bob,  who  had 
heard  the  story.  "  This  is  an  awful  good  story, 
Cousin  Enid." 

"  I  can't  wait  much  longer,"  returned  the  girl. 
"  Please  go  on." 

"  Two  days  after  we  left  the  camp,  we  came 
across  an  awful  figure,  ragged,  blood  stained, 
wasted  to  a  skeleton,  starved  —  " 

"  I  have  seen  men  in  extreme  cases  afore," 
interposed  Kirkby,  "  but  never  none  like  him." 

"  Nor  I,"  continued  Maidand. 

"Was  it  Newbold?"  asked  Enid. 

"Yes." 

"  And  what  had  happened  to  him?  " 

"  He  and  his  wife  had  been  prospecting  in  these 
very  mountains,  she  had  fallen  over  a  cliff  and 


66  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

broken  herself  so  terribly  that  Newbold  had  to 
shoot  her.'* 

"What!"  exclaimed  Bradshaw.  **  ,You  don't 
mean  that  he  actually  killed  her?  " 

"  That's  what  he  done,"  answered  old  Kirkby. 

**  Poor  man,"  murmured  Enid. 

"But  why?"  asked  Phillips. 

"  They  were  five  days  away  from  a  settlement, 
there  wasn't  a  human  being  within  a  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  of  them,  not  even  an  Indian,"  continued 
Maitland.  "  She  was  so  frightfully  broken  and 
mangled  that  he  couldn't  carry  her  away." 

"  But  why  couldn't  he  leave  her  and  go  for 
help?"  asked  Bradshaw. 

"  The  wolves,  the  bears,  or  the  vultures  would 
have  got  her.  These  woods  and  mountains  were 
full  of  them  then  and  there  are  some  of  them 
left  now,  I  guess." 

The  two  little  girls  crept  closer  to  their  grown 
up  cousin,  each  casting  anxious  glances  beyond 
the  fire  light. 

*'  Oh,  you're  all  right,  little  gals,"  said  Kirkby, 
reassuringly,  "  they  wouldn't  come  nigh  us  while, 
this  fire  is  burnin'  an'  they're  pretty  well  hunted 
out  I  guess;  'sides,  there's  men  yere  who'd  like 
nothin'  better'n  drawin'  a  bead  on  a  big  b'ar.'* 

"  And  so,"  continued  Maitland,  "  when  she 
begged  him  to  shoot  her,  to  put  her  out  of  her 


The  Story  and  the  Letters  67 

misery,  he  did  so  and  then  he  started  back  to  the 
settlement  to  tell  his  story  and  stumbled  on  us 
looking  after  him." 

"  What  happened  then?  " 

"  I  went  back  to  the  camp,'*  said  Maitland. 
*'  We  loaded  Newbold  on  a  mule  and  took  him 
with  us.  He  was  so  crazy  he  didn't  know  what 
was  happening,  he  went  over  the  shooting  again 
and  again  in  his  delirium.     It  was  awful." 

"Did  he  die?" 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  was  the  answer,  "  but 
really  I  know  nothing  further  about  him.  There 
were  some  good  women  In  that  camp,  and  we  put 
him  in  their  hands,  and  I  left  shortly  afterwards." 

"  I  kin  tell  the  rest,"  said  old  Kirkby. 
"  Knowin'  more  about  the  mountains  than  most 
people  hereabouts  I  led  the  men  that  didn't  go 
back  with  Bob  an'  Newbold  to  the  place  w'ere 
he  said  his  woman  fell,  an'  there  we  found  her, 
her  body,  leastways." 

"  But  the  wolves?  "  queried  the  girl. 

"  He'd  drug  her  Into  a  kind  of  a  holler  and 
piled  rocks  over  her.  He'd  gone  down  Into  the 
canon,  w'ich  was  somethin'  frightful,  an'  then 
climbed  up  to  w'ere  she'd  lodged.  We  had 
plenty  of  rope,  havin'  brought  It  along  a  purpose, 
an'  we  let  ourselves  down  to  the  shelf  where  she 
w^as    a    lyin'.     We    wrapped    her    body    up    In 


B8'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

blankets  an*  roped  it  an'  finally  drug  her  up  on 
the  old  Injun  trail,  leastways  I  suppose  it  was 
made  afore  there  was  any  Injuns,  an'  brought 
her  back  to  Evergreen  camp,  w'ich  the  only  thing 
about  it  that  was  green  was  the  swing  doors  on 
the  saloon.  We  got  a  parson  out  from  Denver 
an'  give  her  a  Christian  burial." 

"It  that  all?"  asked  Enid  as  the  old  man 
paused  again. 

"  Nope." 

"Oh,  the  man?"  exclaimed  the  woman  with 
quick  intuition. 

"  He  recovered  his  senses  so  they  told  us,  an' 
w'en  we  got  back  he'd  gone." 

"Where?"  was  the  instant  question. 

Old  Kirkby  stretched  out  his  hands. 

"  Don't  ax  me,"  he  said.  "  He'd  jest  gone. 
I  ain't  never  seed  or  heerd  of  him  sence.  Poor 
little  Louise  Rosser,  she  did  have  a  hard  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Enid,  "  but  I  think  the  man  had  a 
harder  time  than  she.     He  loved  her?" 

"  It  looked  like  it,"  answered  Kirkby. 

"  If  you  had  seen  him,  his  remorse,  his  anguish, 
his  horror,"  said  Maitland,  "  you  wouldn't  have 
had  any  doubt  about  it.  But  it  Is  getting  late. 
In  the  mountains  everybody  gets  up  at  daybreak. 
Your  sleeping  bags  are  in  the  tents,  ladies,  time 
to  go  to  bed." 


The  Story  and  the  Letters  69 

As  the  party  broke  up,  old  Kirkby  rose  slowly 
to  his  feet.  He  looked  meaningly  toward  the 
young  woman,  upon  whom  the  spell  of  the 
tragedy  still  lingered,  he  nodded  toward  the 
brook,  and  then  repeated  his  speaking  glance  at 
her.  His  meaning  was  patent,  although  no  one 
else  had  seen  the  covert  invitation. 

"  Come,  Kirkby,"  said  the  girl  in  quick  re- 
sponse, *'  you  shall  be  my  escort.  I  want  a  drink 
before  I  turn  in.  No,  never  mind,"  she  said,  as 
Bradshaw  and  Phillips  both  volunteered,  "not 
this  time." 

The  old  frontiersman  and  the  young  girl 
strolled  off  together.  They  stopped  by  the  brink 
of  the  rushing  torrent  a  few  yards  away.  The 
noise  that  It  made  drowned  the  low  tones  of  their 
voices  and  kept  the  others,  busy  preparing  to  re- 
tire, from  hearing  what  they  said. 

*'That  ain't  quite  all  the  story,  Miss  Enid," 
said  the  old  trapper  meaningly.  "  There  was 
another  man." 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  the  girl. 

"  Oh,  there  wasn't  nothin'  wrong  with  Louise 
Rosser,  w'Ich  she  was  Louise  Newbold,  but  there 
was  another  man.  I  suspected  it  afore,  that's  why 
she  was  sad.  W*en  we  found  her  body  I  knowed 
it." 

''  I  don't  understand." 


70     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  These'll  explain,"  said  Kirkby.  He  drew 
out  from  his  rough  hunting  coat  a  package  of 
soiled  letters;  they  were  carefully  enclosed  in  an 
oil  skin  and  tied  with  a  faded  ribbon.  *'  You 
see/'  he  continued,  holding  them  in  his  hand,  yet 
carefully  concealing  them  from  the  people  at  the 
fire.  *'  Wen  she  fell  off  the  cliff  —  somehow  the 
mule  lost  his  footing  nobody  never  knowed  how, 
leastways  the  mule  was  dead  an'  couldn't  tell  — 
she  struck  on  a  spur  or  shelf  about  a  hundred 
feet  below  the  brink.  Evidently  she  was  carryin' 
the  letters  in  her  dress.  Her  bosom  was  fright- 
fully tore  open  an'  the  letters  was  lying  there. 
Newbold  didn't  see  'em,  because  he  went  down 
into  the  canon  an'  came  up  to  the  shelf,  or  butte 
head,  w'ere  the  body  was  lyin',  but  we  dropped 
down.  I  was  the  first  man  down  an'  I  got  'em. 
Nobody  else  seein'  me,  an'  there  ain't  no  human 
eyes,  not  even  my  wife's,  that's  ever  looked  on 
them  letters,  except  mine  and  now  yourn." 

"  You  are  going  to  give  them  to  me?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  Kirkby. 

''  But  why?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  know  the  hull  story." 

"  But  why,  again?  " 

"  I  rather  guess  them  letters'll  tell,"  answered 
the  old  man  evasively,  "  an'  I  like  you,  and  I  don't 
want  to  see  you  throwed  away." 


'Read  the   letters,"    he   said.     'They'll   tell   the 
story.     Good  night" 


The  Story  and  the  Letters         711 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? ''  asked  the  girl, 
curiously,  thrilling  to  the  solemnity  of  the  moment, 
the  seriousness,  the  kind  affection  of  the  old 
frontiersman,  the  weird  scene,  the  fire  light,  the 
tents  gleaming  ghostlike,  the  black  wall  of  the 
caiion  and  the  tops  of  the  mountain  range  broad- 
ening out  beneath  the  stars  In  the  clear  sky  where 
they  twinkled  above  her  head.  The  strange  and 
terrible  story,  and  now  the  letters  in  her  hand 
which  somehow  seemed  to  be  Imbued  with  human 
feeling,  greatly  affected  her  I  KIrkby  patted  her 
on  the  shoulder. 

"  Read  the  letters,"  he  said.  "  They'll  tell  the 
story.     Good-night." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    POOL   AND   THE   WATER    SPRITE 

Long  after  the  others  in  the  camp  had  sunk  into 
the  profound  slumber  of  weary  bodies  and  good 
consciences,  a  solitary  candle  In  the  small  tent  oc- 
cupied by  Enid  Maltland  alone,  gave  evidence  that 
she  was  busy  over  the  letters  which  Kirkby  had 
handed  to  her. 

It  was  a  very  thoughtful  girl  indeed  who  con- 
fronted the  old  frontiersman  the  next  morning. 
At  the  first  convenient  opportunity  when  they  were 
alone  together  she  handed  him  the  packet  of 
letters. 

"  Have  you  read  'em?  "  he  asked. 

"Yes." 

*'  Wall,  you  keep  'em,"  said  the  old  man 
gravely.     "  Mebbe  you'll  want  to  read  'em  agin." 

"  But  I  don't  understand  why  you  want  me  to 
have  them." 

**  Wall,  I'm  not  quite  sure  myself  why,  but 
leastways  I  do  an' — " 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  keep  them,"  said  the 
girl  still  more  gravely,  slipping  them  Into  one  of 
the  pockets  of  her  hunting  shirt  as  she  spoke. 

72 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      73) 

The  packet  was  not  bulky,  the  letters  were  not 
many  nor  were  they  of  any  great  length.  She 
could  easily  carry  them  on  her  person  and  in 
some  strange  and  Inexplicable  way  she  was  rather 
glad  to  have  them.  She  could  not,  as  she  had 
said,  see  any  personal  application  to  herself 
In  them,  and  yet  In  some  way  she  did  feel  that  the 
solution  of  the  mystery  would  be  hers  some  day. 
Especially  did  she  think  this  on  account  of  the 
strange  but  quiet  open  emphasis  of  the  old 
hunter. 

There  was  much  to  do  about  the  camp  in  the 
mornings.  Horses  and  burros  to  be  looked  after, 
fire  wood  to  be  cut,  plans  for  the  day  arranged, 
excursions  planned,  mountain  climbs  projected. 
Later  on  unwonted  hands  must  be  taught  to  cast 
the  fly  for  the  mountain  trout  which  filled  the 
brook  and  pool,  and  all  the  varied  duties,  details 
and  fascinating  possibilities  of  camp  life  must 
be  explained  to  the  new-comers. 

The  first  few  days  were  days  of  learning  and 
preparation,  days  of  mishap  and  misadventure, 
of  joyous  laughter  over  blunders  In  getting  set- 
tled, or  learning  the  mysteries  of  rod  and  line, 
of  becoming  hardened  and  acclimated.  The 
weather  proved  perfect;  It  was  late  October  and 
the  nights  were  very  cold,  but  there  was  no  rain 
and  the  bright  sunny  days  were  Invigorating  and 


74     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

exhilarating  to  the  last  degree.  They  had  huge 
fires  and  plenty  of  blankets  and  the  colder  it  was 
In  the  night  the  better  they  slept. 

It  was  an  intensely  new  experience  for  the  girl 
from  Philadelphia,  but  she  showed  a  marked  In- 
terest and  adaptability,  and  entered  with  the  keen- 
est zest  Into  all  the  opportunities  of  the  charm- 
ing days.  She  was  a  good  sportswoman  and  she 
soon  learned  to  throw  a  fly  with  the  best  of  them. 
Old  Kirkby  took  her  under  his  especial  protection, 
and  as  he  was  one  of  the  best  rods  In  the  moun- 
tains, she  enjoyed  every  advantage. 

She  had  always  lived  In  the  midst  of  life.  Ex- 
cept in  the  privacy  of  her  own  chamber  she  had 
rarely  ever  been  alone  before  —  not  twenty  feet 
from  a  man:  she  thought  whimsically;  but  here 
the  charm  of  solitude  attracted  her,  she  liked  to 
take  her  rod  and  wander  off  alone.  She  actually 
enjoyed  It. 

The  main  stream  that  flowed  down  the  canon 
was  fed  by  many  afiluents  from  the  mountain 
sides,  and  In  each  of  them  voracious  trout  ap- 
peared. She  explored  them  as  she  had  oppor- 
tunity. Sometimes  with  the  others  but  more 
often  by  herself.  She  discovered  charming  and 
exquisite  nooks,  little  stretches  of  grass,  the  size 
perhaps  of  a  small  room,  flower  decked,  ferny 
bordered,  overshadowed  by  tall  gaunt  pine  trees, 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      75 

the  sunlight  filtering  through  their  thin  foliage, 
checkering  the  verdant  carpet  beneath.  Huge 
moss  covered  boulders,  wet  with  the  everdashing 
spray  of  the  roaring  brooks,  lay  in  mid-stream  and 
with  other  natural  stepping  stones  hard-by  invited 
her  to  cross  to  either  shore.  Waterfalls  laughed 
musically  In  her  ears,  deep  still  pools  tempted 
her  skill  and  address. 

Sometimes  leaving  rod  and  basket  by  the  wa- 
terside, she  climbed  some  particularly  steep  ac- 
clivity of  the  canon  wall  and  stood  poised,  wind 
blown,  a  nymph  of  the  woods,  upon  some  pinna- 
cle of  rock  rising  needle  like  at  the  canon's  edge 
above  the  sea  of  verdure  which  the  wind  waved 
to  and  fro  beneath  her  feet.  There  in  the  bright 
light,  with  the  breeze  blowing  her  golden  hair, 
she  looked  like  some  Norse  goddess,  blue  eyed, 
exhilarated,  triumphant. 

She  was  a  perfectly  formed  woman  on  the  an- 
cient noble  lines  of  Milo  rather  than  the  degen- 
erate softness  of  Medici.  She  grew  stronger  of 
limb  and  fuller  of  breath,  quicker  and  steadier  of 
eye  and  hand,  cooler  of  nerve.  In  these  demand- 
ing, compelling  adventures  among  the  rocks  in 
this  mountain  air.  She  was  not  a  tall  woman, 
indeed  slightly  under  rather  than  over  the  me- 
dium size,  but  she  was  so  ideally  proportioned, 
she   carried  herself  with   the   fearlessness   of   a 


76     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

young  chamois,  that  she  looked  taller  than  she 
was.  There  was  not  an  ounce  of  superfluous 
flesh  upon  her,  yet  she  had  the  grace  of  Hebe,  the 
strength  of  Pallas  Athene,  and  the  swiftness  of 
motion  of  Atalanta.  Had  she  but  carried  bow 
and  spear,  had  she  worn  tunic  and  sandals,  she 
might  have  stood  for  Diana  and  she  would  have 
had  no  cause  to  blush  by  comparison  with  the 
finest  model  of  Praxiteles'  chisel  or  the  most 
splendid  and  glowing  example  of  Appelles'  brush. 

Uncle  Robert  was  delighted  with  her.  His  con- 
tribution to  her  western  outfit  was  a  small  Win- 
chester. She  displayed  astonishing  aptitude  un- 
der his  instructions  and  soon  became  wonderfully 
proficient  with  that  deadly  weapon  and  with  a  re- 
volver also.  There  was  little  danger  to  be  ap- 
prehended in  the  daytime  among  the  mountains 
the  more  experienced  men  thought,  still  It  was 
wise  for  the  girl  always  to  have  a  weapon  in 
readiness,  so  In  her  journeylngs,  either  the  Win- 
chester was  slung  from  her  shoulder  or  carried 
in  her  hand,  or  else  the  Colt  dangled  at  her  hip. 
At  first  she  took  both,  but  finally  it  was  with  re- 
luctance that  she  could  be  persuaded  to  take 
either.  Nothing  had  ever  happened.  Save  for 
a  few  birds  now  and  then  she  had  seemed  the 
only  tenant  of  the  wildernesses  of  her  choice. 

One  night  after  a  camping  experience  of  nearly 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      77 

two  weeks  in  the  mountains,  and  just  before  the 
time  for  breaking  up  and  going  back  to  civiliza- 
tion, she  announced  that  early  the  next  morning 
she  was  going  down  the  canon  for  a  day's  fishing 
excursion. 

None  of  the  party  had  ever  followed  the  little 
river  very  far,  but  It  was  known  that  some  ten 
miles  below  the  stream  merged  In  a  lovely  gem- 
like lake  In  a  sort  of  crater  in  the  mountains. 
From  thence  by  a  series  of  waterfalls  It  de- 
scended through  the  foothills  to  the  distant 
plains  beyond.  The  others  had  arranged  to 
climb  one  especially  dangerous  and  ambition  pro- 
voking peak  which  towered  above  them  and 
which  had  never  before  been  surmounted  so  far 
as  they  knew.  Enid  enjoyed  mountain  climbing. 
She  liked  the  uplift  In  feeling  that  came  from  go- 
ing higher  and  higher  till  some  crest  was  gained, 
but  on  this  occasion  they  urged  her  to  accompany 
them  In  vain. 

When  the  fixity  of  her  decision  was  established 
she  had  a  number  of  offers  to  accompany  her, 
but  declined  them  all,  bidding  the  others  go  their 
way.  Mrs.  Maltland,  who  was  not  feeling  very 
well,  old  KIrkby,  who  had  climbed  too  many  moun- 
tains to  feel  much  Interest  In  that  game,  and  Pete, 
the  horse  wrangler,  who  had  to  look  after  the 
stock,  remained  in  camp;  the  others,  with  the  ex- 


78     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

ception  of  Enid,  started  at  daybreak  for  their 
long  ascent.  She  waited  until  the  sun  was  about 
an  hour  high  and  then  bade  good-by  to  the 
three  and  began  the  descent  of  the  canon.  Trav- 
eling light  for  she  was  going  far  —  farther  In- 
deed than  she  knew  —  she  left  her  Winchester 
at  home,  but  carried  the  revolver  with  the  fishing 
tackle  and  substantial  luncheon. 

Now  the  river  —  a  river  by  courtesy  only  — 
and  the  canon  turned  sharply  back  on  themselves 
just  beyond  the  little  meadow  where  the  camp 
was  pitched.  Past  the  tents  that  had  been  their 
home  for  this  joyous  period  the  river  ran  due 
east  for  a  few  hundred  feet,  after  which  it  curved 
sharply,  doubled  back  and  flowed  westward  for 
several  miles  before  it  gradually  swung  around 
to  the  east  on  its  proper  course  again. 

It  had  been  Enid's  purpose  to  cut  across  the 
hills  and  strike  the  river  where  it  turned  eastward 
once  more,  avoiding  the  long  detour  back.  In 
fact  she  had  declared  her  intention  of  doing  that 
to  Kirkby  and  he  had  given  her  careful  direc- 
tions so  that  she  should  not  get  lost  In  the  moun- 
tains. 

But  she  had  plenty  of  time  and  no  excuse  or 
reason  for  saving  It;  she  never  tired  of  the  charm 
of  the  canon;  therefore.  Instead  of  plunging  di- 
rectly over  the  spur  of  the  range,  she  followed 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      79 

the  familiar  trail  and  after  she  had  passed  west- 
ward far  beyond  the  limits  of  the  camp  to  the 
turning,  she  decided,  In  accordance  with  that  ut- 
terly Irresponsible  thing,  a  woman's  will,  that  she 
would  not  go  down  the  canon  that  day  after  all, 
but  that  she  would  cross  back  over  the  range  and 
strike  the  river  a  few  miles  above  the  camp  and 
go  up  the  canon  Instead. 

She  had  been  up  In  that  direction  a  few  times, 
but  only  for  a  short  distance,  as  the  ascent  above 
the  camp  was  very  sharp;  In  fact  for  a  little 
more  than  a  mile  the  brook  was  only  a  succession 
of  waterfalls;  the  best  fishing  was  below  the 
camp  and  the  finest  woods  were  deeper  In  the 
canon.  She  suddenly  concluded  that  she  would 
like  to  see  what  was  up  In  that  unexplored  sec- 
tion of  the  country  and  so,  with  scarcely  a  mo- 
mentary hesitation,  she  abandoned  her  former 
plan  and  began  the  ascent  of  the  range. 

Upon  decisions  so  lightly  taken  what  momen- 
tous consequences  depend?  Whether  she  should 
go  up  the  stream  or  down  the  stream,  whether 
she  should  follow  the  rivulet  to  Its  source  or  de- 
scend It  to  Its  mouth,  was  apparently  a  matter  of 
little  moment,  yet  her  whole  life  turned  abso- 
lutely upon  that  decision.  The  Idle  and  uncon- 
sidered choice  of  the  hour  was  fraught  with 
gravest    possibilities.     Had    that    election    been 


8o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

made  with  any  suspicion,  with  any  foreknowl- 
edge, had  It  come  as  the  result  of  careful 
reasoning  or  far-seeing  of  probabilities,  it 
might  have  been  understandable,  but  an  im- 
pulse, a  whim,  the  vagrant  idea  of  an  idle 
hour,  the  careless  chance  of  a  moment,  and  be- 
hold !  a  life  is  changed.  On  one  side  were  youth 
and  Innocence,  freedom  and  contentment,  a  happy 
day,  a  good  rest  by  the  cheerful  fire  at  night;  on 
the  other,  peril  of  life,  struggle,  love,  jealousy, 
self-sacrifice,  devotion,  suffering,  knowledge  — 
scarcely  Eve  herself  when  she  stood  apple  In 
hand  with  ignorance  and  pleasure  around  her  and 
enlightenment  and  sorrow  before  her,  had  greater 
choice  to  make. 

How  fortunate  we  are  that  the  future  is 
veiled,  that  the  psalmist's  prayer  that  he  might 
know  his  end  and  be  certified  how  long  he  had 
to  live  Is  one  that  will  not  and  cannot  be  granted; 
that  It  has  been  given  to  but  One  to  foresee  His 
own  future,  for  no  power  apparently  could  en- 
able us  to  stand  up  against  what  might  be,  be- 
cause we  are  only  human  beings  not  sufficiently 
alight  with  the  spark  divine.  We  wait  for  the 
end  because  we  must,  but  thank  God  we  know 
It  not  until  It  comes. 

Nothing  of  this  appeared  to  the  girl  that 
bright  sunny  morning.     Fate  hid  in  those  moun- 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      Si; 

tains  under  the  guise  of  fancy.  Llghthearted, 
carefree,  fitted  with  buoyant  joy  over  every  fact 
of  life,  she  left  the  flowing  water  and  scaled  the 
cliff  beyond  which  In  the  wilderness  she  was  to 
find,  after  all,  the  world. 

The  ascent  was  longer  and  more  difficult  and 
dangerous  than  she  had  imagined  when  she  first 
confronted  It,  perhaps  It  was  typical  and  foretold 
her  progress.  More  than  once  she  had  to  stop 
and  carefully  examine  the  face  of  the  canon  wall 
for  a  practicable  trail;  more  than  once  she  had 
to  exercise  extremest  care  In  her  climb,  but  she 
was  a  bold  and  fearless  mountaineer  by  this  time 
and  at  last  surmounting  every  difficulty  she  stood 
panting  slightly,  a  little  tired  but  triumphant, 
upon  the  summit. 

The  ground  was  rocky  and  broken,  the  timber 
line  was  close  above  her  and  she  judged  that  she 
must  be  several  miles  from  the  camp.  The  canon 
was  very  crooked,  she  could  see  only  a  few  hun- 
dred yards  of  it  in  any  direction.  She  scanned 
her  circumscribed  limited  horizon  eagerly  for  the 
smoke  from  the  great  fire  that  they  always  kept 
burning  in  the  camp,  but  not  a  sign  of  It  was 
visible.  She  was  evidently  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  river  whence  she  had  come.  Her  standing 
ground  was  a  rocky  ridge  which  fell  away  more 
gently  on  the  other  side  for  perhaps  two  hundred 


82     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

feet  toward  the  same  brook.  She  could  see 
through  vistas  in  the  trees  the  uptossed  peaks  of 
the  maui  range,  bare,  chaotic,  snow  covered, 
lonely,  majestic,  terrible. 

The  awe  of  the  everlasting  hills  is  greater  than 
that  of  the  heaving  sea.  Save  in  the  infrequent 
periods  of  calm,  the  latter  always  moves,  the 
mountains  are  the  same  for  all  time.  The  ocean 
is  quick,  noisy,  living;  the  mountains  are  calm, 
still  —  dead. 

The  girl  stood  as  it  were  on  the  roof  of  the 
world,  a  solitary  human  being,  so  far  as  she 
knew,  in  the  eye  of  God  above  her.  Ah,  but  the 
Eyes  Divine  look  long  and  see  far;  things  be- 
yond the  human  ken  are  all  revealed.  None  of 
the  party  had  ever  come  this  far  from  the  camp 
in  this  direction  she  knew.  And  she  was  glad 
to  be  the  first,  as  she  fatuously  thought,  to  observe 
that  majestic  solitude. 

Surveying  the  great  range  she  wondered  where 
the  peak  climbers  might  be.  Keen  sighted 
though  she  was  she  could  not  discover  them. 
The  crest  that  they  were  attempting  lay  in  an- 
other direction  hidden  by  a  nearer  spur.  She 
was  in  the  very  heart  of  the  mountains;  peaks 
and  ridges  rose  all  about  her,  so  much  so  that 
the  general  direction  of  the  great  range  was  lost. 
She  was  at  the  center  of  a  far  flung  concavity  of 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      83 

crest  and  range.  She  marked  one  towering 
point  to  the  right  of  her  that  rose  massively  grand 
above  all  the  others.  To-morrow  she  would 
climb  to  that  high  point  and  from  Its  lofty  ele- 
vation look  upon  the  heavens  above  and  the 
earth  beneath,  aye  and  the  waters  under  the 
earth  far  below.  To-morrow !  —  it  is  generally 
known  that  we  do  not  usually  attempt  the  high 
points  In  life's  range  at  once,  content  are  we  with 
lower  altitudes  to-day. 

There  was  no  sound  above  her,  the  rushing 
water  over  the  rocks  upon  the  nearer  side  she 
could  hear  faintly  beneath  her,  there  was  no  wind 
about  her,  to  stir  the  long  needles  of  the  pines.  It 
was  very  still,  the  kind  of  a  stillness  of  body  which 
IS  the  outward  and  visible  complement  of  that  still- 
ness of  the  soul  In  which  men  know  God.  There 
had  been  no  earthquake,  no  storm,  the  mountains 
had  not  heaved  beneath  her  feet,  the  great  and 
strong  wind  had  not  passed  by,  the  rocks  had  not 
been  rent  and  broken,  yet  Enid  caught  herself 
listening  as  If  for  a  Voice.  The  thrall  of  ma- 
jesty, silence,  loneliness  was  upon  her.  She 
stood  —  one  stands  when  there  Is  a  chance  of 
meeting  God  on  the  way,  one  does  not  kneel  un- 
til He  comes  —  with  her  raised  hands  clasped, 
her  head  uplifted  in  exultation  unspeakable, 
God-conquered  with  her  face  to  heaven  upturned. 


84     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills  whence 
Cometh  my  salvation,"  her  heart  sang  voice- 
lessly.  "We  praise  Thee,  O  God,  we  mag- 
nify Thy  Holy  Name  forever,"  floated  through 
her  brain,  in  great  appreciation  of  the  marvelous 
works  of  the  Almighty  Shaping  Master  Hand. 
Caught  up  as  it  were  into  the  heavens,  her  soul 
leaped  to  meet  its  maker.  Thinking  to  find  God 
she  waited  there  on  the  heaven-kissing  hill. 

How  long  she  stayed  she  did  not  realize;  she 
took  no  note  of  time,  it  did  not  occur  to  her  even 
to  look  at  the  watch  on  her  wrist;  she  had  swept 
the  skyline  cut  off  as  it  were  by  the  peaks  when 
first  she  came,  and  when  at  last  she  turned  away 
—  even  divinest  moments  must  have  an  end  — 
she  looked  not  backward.  She  saw  not  a  little 
cloud  hid  on  the  horizon  behind  the  rampart  of 
ages,  as  it  were,  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand,  a  cloud  full  of  portent  and  which  would 
alarm  greatly  the  veteran  Kirkby  in  the  camp 
and  Maitland  on  the  mountain  top.  Both  of 
them  unfortunately  were  unable  to  see  It,  one 
being  on  the  other  side  of  the  range,  and  the 
other  deep  in  the  canon,  and  for  both  of  them  as 
for  the  girl  the  sun  still  shone  brightly. 

The  declivity  to  the  river  on  the  upper  side 
was  comparatively  easy  and  Enid  Maitland  went 
slowly   and    thoughtfully   down    to    it   until    she 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      '85 

reached  the  young  torrent.  She  got  her  tackle 
ready,  but  did  no  casting  as  she  made  her  way 
slowly  up  the  ever  narrowing,  ever  rising  canon. 
She  was  charmed  and  thrilled  by  the  wild  beauty 
of  the  way,  the  spell  of  the  mountains  was  deep 
upon  her.  Thoughtfully  she  wandered  on  until 
presently  she  came  to  another  little  amphitheater 
like  that  where  the  camp  was  pitched,  only 
smaller.  Strange  to  say  the  brook,  or  river,  here 
broadened  into  a  little  pool  perhaps  twenty  feet 
across;  a  turn  had  thrown  a  full  force  of  water 
against  the  huge  boulder  wall  and  in  ages  of  ef- 
fort a  giant  cup  had  been  hollowed  out  of  the 
native  rock.  The  pool  was  perhaps  four  or  five 
feet  deep,  the  rocky  bottom  worn  smooth,  the 
clearing  was  upon  the  opposite  side  and  the  banks 
were  heavily  wooded  beyond  the  spur  of  the  rock 
which  formed  the  back  of  the  pool.  She  could 
see  the  trout  in  it.  She  made  ready  to  try  her 
fortune,  but  before  she  did  so  an  idea  came  to 
her  —  daring,  unconventional,  extraordinary,  be- 
got of  innocence  and  inexperience. 

The  water  of  course  was  very  cold,  but  she 
had  been  accustomed  all  her  life  to  taking  a  bath 
at  the  natural  temperature  of  the  water  at  what- 
ever season.  She  knew  that  the  only  people  in 
that  wilderness  were  the  members  of  her  own 
party;  three  of  them  were  at  the  camp  below,  the 


S6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

others  were  ascending  a  mountain  miles  away. 
The  canon  was  deep  sunk,  and  she  satisfied  her- 
self by  careful  observation  that  the  pool  was 
not  overlooked  by  any  elevations  far  or  near. 

Her  ablutions  In  common  with  those  of  the 
rest  of  the  campers  had  been  by  piecemeal  of 
necessity.  Here  was  an  opportunity  for  a  plunge 
in  a  natural  bath  tub.  She  was  as  certain  that 
she  would  be  under  no  observation  as  If  she  were 
In  the  privacy  of  her  own  chamber.  Here  again 
impulse  determined  the  end.  In  spite  of  her 
assurance  there  was  some  little  apprehension  in 
the  glance  that  she  cast  about  her,  but  It  soon 
vanished.  There  was  no  one.  She  was  abso- 
lutely alone.  The  pool  and  the  chance  of  the 
plunge  had  brought  her  down  to  earth  again; 
the  thought  of  the  enlivening  exhilaration  of  the 
pure  cold  water  dashing  against  her  own  sweet 
warm  young  body  changed  the  current  of  her 
thoughts  —  the  anticipation  of  it  rather. 

Impulsively  she  dropped  her  rod  upon  the 
grass,  unpinned  her  cap,  threw  the  fishing  basket 
from  her  shoulder.  She  was  wearing  a  stout 
sweater;  that  too  joined  the  rest.  Nervous 
hands  manipulated  buttons  and  the  fastenings. 
In  a  few  moments  the  sweet  figure  of  youth,  of 
beauty,  of  purity  and  of  innocence  brightened  the 
sod  and  shed  a  white  luster  upon  the  green  of  the 


The  Pool  and  the  Water  Sprite      87 

grass  and  moss  and  pines,  reflecting  light  to  the 
gray  brown  rocks  of  the  range.  So  Eve  may 
have  looked  on  some  bright  Eden  morning.  A 
few  steps  forward  and  this  nymph  of  the  woods, 
this  naiad  of  the  mountains,  plunged  Into  the 
clear,  cold  waters  of  the  pool  —  a  water  sprite 
and  her  fountain! 


CHAPTER   yil 

THE  BEAR,   THE  MAN  AND  THE  FLOOD 

The  water  was  deep  enough  to  receive  her  dive 
and  the  pool  was  long  enough  to  enable  her  to 
swim  a  few  strokes.  The  first  chill  of  the  icy 
water  was  soon  lost  in  the  vigorous  motions  In 
which  she  Indulged,  but  no  mere  human  form 
however  hardened  and  Inured  could  long  endure 
that  frigid  bath.  Reluctantly,  yet  with  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  must  go,  after  one  more  sweeping 
dive  and  a  few  magnificent  strokes,  she  raised 
her  head  from  the  water  lapping  her  white  shoul- 
ders, and  shaking  her  face  clear  from  the  drops 
of  crystal,  faced  the  shore.  It  was  no  longer 
untenanted,  she  was  no  longer  alone. 

What  she  saw  startled  and  alarmed  her  be- 
yond measure.  Planted  on  her  clothes,  looking 
straight  at  her,  having  come  upon  her  in  abso- 
lute silence,  nothing  having  given  her  the  least 
warning  of  his  approach,  and  now  gazing  at  her 
with  red,  hungry,  evil,  vicious  eyes,  the  eyes  of 
the  covetous  filled  with  the  cruel  lust  of  desire 
and  carnal  possession,  and  yet  with  a  gUnt  of 
surprise  in  them,  too,  as  If  he  did  not  know  quite 

88 


The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood      89 

what  to  make  of  the  white  loveliness  of  this  un- 
wonted apparition  flashing  so  suddenly  at  him 
out  of  the  water,  this  strange  invader  of  the  do- 
main of  which  he  fancied  he  was  sole  master 
and  lord  paramount,  stood  a  great,  monstrous 
frightful  looking  Grizzly  Bear.  Vrsiis  Horri- 
bills,  indeed. 

He  was  an  aged  monarch  of  the  mountains, 
reddish  brown  in  color  originally,  but  now  a 
hoary  dirty  gray.  His  body  was  massive  and 
burly,  his  legs  short,  dark  colored  and  immensely 
powerful.  His  broad  square  head  moved  rest- 
lessly. His  fanged  mouth  opened  and  a  low 
hoarse  growl  came  from  the  red  cavern  of  his 
throat.  He  was  an  old  and  terrible  monster 
who  had  tasted  the  blood  of  man  and  who  would 
not  hesitate  to  attack  even  without  provocation 
especially  anything  at  once  so  harmless  and  so 
whitely  inviting  as  the  girl  in  the  pool. 

The  girl  forgot  the  chill  of  the  water  in  the 
horror  of  that  moment.  Alone,  naked,  defense- 
less, lost  In  the  mountains,  with  the  most  power- 
ful, sanguinary  and  ferocious  beast  of  the  con- 
tinent In  front  of  her,  she  could  neither  fight  nor 
fly,  she  could  only  wait  his  pleasure.  He  snuffed 
at  her  clothing  a  moment  and  stood  with  one 
fore  foot  advanced  for  a  second  or  two  growling 
deeply,  evidently,  she  thought  with  almost  super- 


90  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

human  keenness  of  perception,  preparing  to  leap 
into  the  pool  and  seize  upon  her. 

The  rush  of  the  current  as  it  swirled  about  her 
caused  her  to  sway  gently,  otherwise  she  stood 
motionless  and  apprehensive,  terribly  expectant. 
She  had  made  no  sound,  and  save  for  that  low 
growl  the  great  beast  had  been  equally  silent. 
There  was  an  awful  fixity  in  the  gaze  she  turned 
upon  him  and  he  wavered  under  it.  It  annoyed 
him.  It  bespoke  a  little  of  the  dominance  of  the 
human.  But  she  was  too  surprised,  too  un- 
nerved, too  desperately  frightened  to  put  forth 
the  full  power  of  mind  over  matter.  There  was 
piteous  appeal  in  her  gaze.  The  bear  realized 
this  and  mastered  her  sufficiently. 

She  did  not  know  whether  she  was  in  the  water 
or  in  the  air,  there  were  but  two  points  upon  which 
her  consciousness  was  focussed  in  the  vast  ellipse 
of  her  imagination.  Another  moment  or  two  and 
all  coherency  of  thought  would  be  gone.  The 
grizzly,  still  unsettled  and  uneasy  before  her  aw- 
ful glance,  but  not  deterred  by  it,  turned  its  great 
head  sideways  a  little  to  escape  the  direct  immo- 
bile stare,  brought  his  sharp  clawed  foot  down 
heavily  and  lurched  forward. 

Scarcely  had  a  minute  elapsed  in  which  all  this 
happened.  That  huge  threatening  heave  of  the 
great  body  toward  her  relieved  the  tension.     She 


The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood     91 

found  voice  at  last.  Although  it  was  absolutely 
futile  she  realized  as  she  cried,  her  released  lips 
framed  the  loud  appeal. 

"  Help  !  for  God's  sake." 

Although  she  knew  she  cried  but  to  the  bleak 
walls  of  the  canon,  the  drooping  pines,  the  rush- 
ing river,  the  distant  heaven,  the  appeal  went 
forth  accompanied  by  the  mightiest  conjuration 
known  to  man. 

"For  God's  sake,  Help!" 

How  dare  poor  humanity  so  plead,  the  doubter 
cries.  What  is  It  to  God  if  one  suffers,  another 
bleeds,  another  dies.  What  answer  could  come 
out  of  that  silent  sky? 

Sometimes  the  Lord  speaks  with  the  loud  voice 
of  men's  fashioning.  Instead  of  in  that  still  whis- 
per which  is  His  own  and  the  sound  of  which  we 
fail  to  catch  because  of  our  own  ignoble  babble! 

The  answer  to  her  prayer  came  with  a  roar  in 
her  nervous  frightened  ear  like  a  clap  of  thun- 
der. Ere  the  first  echo  of  It  died  away.  It  was 
succeeded  by  another  and  another  and  another, 
echoing,  rolling,  reverberating  among  the  rocks 
in  ever  diminishing  but  long  drawn  out  peals. 

On  the  instant  the  bear  rose  to  his  feet,  swayed 
slightly  and  struck  as  at  an  imaginary  enemy  with 
his  weighty  paws.  A  hoarse,  frightful  guttering 
roar  burst  from  his  red  slavering  jaws,  then  he 


92     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

lurched  sideways  and  fell  forward,  fighting  the 
air  madly  for  a  moment,  and  lay  still. 

With  staring  eyes  that  missed  no  detail,  she 
saw  that  the  brute  had  been  shot  in  the  head  and 
shoulder  three  times,  and  that  he  was  apparently 
dead.  The  revulsion  that  came  over  her  was  be- 
wildering; she  swayed  again,  this  time  not  from 
the  thrust  of  the  water  but  with  sick  faintness. 
The  tension  suddenly  taken  off,  unstrung,  the 
loose  bow  of  her  spirit  quivered  helplessly;  the 
arrow  of  her  life  almost  fell  into  the  stream. 

And  then  a  new  and  more  appalling  terror 
swept  over  her.  Some  man  had  fired  that  shot. 
'Actaeon  had  spied  upon  Diana.  With  this  sud- 
den revelation  of  her  shame,  the  red  blood  beat 
to  the  white  surface  in  spite  of  the  chill  water. 
The  anguish  of  that  moment  was  greater  than 
before.  She  could  be  killed,  torn  to  pieces,  de- 
voured, that  was  a  small  thing,  but  that  she 
should  be  so  outraged  in  her  modesty  was  unen- 
durable. She  wished  the  hunter  had  not  come. 
She  sunk  lower  in  the  water  for  a  moment  fain 
to  hide  in  its  crystal  clarity  and  realized  as  she 
did  how  frightfully  cold  she  was.  Yet,  although 
she  froze  where  she  was  and  perished  with  cold 
she  could  not  go  out  on  the  bank  to  dress,  and  it 
would  avail  her  little  she  saw  swiftly,  since  the 


The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood      93 

huge  monster  had  fallen  a  dead  heap  on  her 
clothes. 

Now  all  this,  although  it  takes  minutes  to  tell, 
had  happened  In  but  a  few  seconds.  Seconds 
sometimes  Include  hours,  even  a  life  time,  In 
their  brief  composition.  She  thought  It  would  be 
just  as  well  for  her  to  sink  down  and  die  In  the 
water,  when  a  sudden  splashing  below  her  caused 
her  to  look  down  the  stream. 

She  was  so  agitated  that  she  could  make  out 
little  except  that  there  was  a  man  crossing  below 
her  and  making  directly  toward  the  body  of  the 
bear.  He  was  a  tall  black  bearded  man,  she 
saw  he  carried  a  rifle,  he  looked  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left,  he  did  not  bestow  a  glance 
upon  her.  She  could  have  cried  aloud  In  thanks- 
giving for  his  apparent  obliviousness  to  her  as 
she  crouched  now  neck  deep  In  the  benumbing 
cold.  The  man  stepped  on  the  bank,  shook  him- 
self like  a  great  dog  might  have  done  and 
marched  over  to  the  bear.  He  uprooted  a  small 
near-by  pine,  with  the  ease  of  a  Hercules  —  and 
'  she  had  time  to  mark  and  marvel  at  It  In  spite 
of  everything  —  and  then  with  that  as  a  lever  he 
unconcernedly  and  easily  heaved  the  body  of  the 
monster  from  off  her  clothing.  She  was  to  learn 
later  what  a   feat  of  strength  It  was  to  move 


94     The  Chalice  of  Courage 

that  Inert  carcass  weighing  much  more  than  half 
a  ton. 

Thereafter  he  dropped  the  pine  tree  by  the  side 
of  the  dead  grizzly  and  without  a  backward  look 
tramped  swiftly  and  steadily  up  the  canon  through 
the  trees,  turning  at  the  point  of  It,  and  was  In- 
stantly lost  to  sight.  His  gentle  and  generous 
purpose  was  obvious  even  to  the  frightened,  ag- 
itated, excited  girl. 

The  woman  watched  him  until  he  disappeared, 
a  few  seconds  longer,  and  then  she  hurled  herself 
through  the  water  and  stepped  out  upon  the 
shore.  Her  sweater,  which  the  bear  had  dragged 
forward  In  Its  advance,  lay  on  top  of  the  rest  of 
her  clothes  covered  with  blood.  She  threw  it 
aside  and  with  nervous,  frantic  energy,  wet,  cold, 
though  she  was,  she  jerked  on  In  some  fashion 
enough  clothes  to  cover  her  nakedness  and  then 
with  more  leisurely  order  and  with  necessary  care 
she  got  the  rest  of  her  apparel  In  Its  accustomed 
place  upon  her  body,  and  then  when  It  was  all 
over  she  sank  down  prone  and  prostrate  upon  the 
grass  by  the  carcass  of  the  now  harmless  monster 
which  had  so  nearly  caused  her  undoing,  and 
shivered,  cried  and  sobbed  as  If  her  heart  would 
break. 

She  was  chilled  to  the  bone  by  her  motionless 
sojourn,  albeit  It  had  been  for  scarcely  more  than 


The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood      95) 

a  minute,  in  that  icy  water,  and  yet  the  blood 
rushed  to  her  brow  and  face,  to  every  hidden  part 
of  her  In  waves  as  she  thought  of  it.  It  was  a 
good  thing  that  she  cried,  she  was  not  a  weeping 
woman,  her  tears  came  slowly  as  a  rule  and  then 
came  hard.  She  rather  prided  herself  upon  her 
stoicism,  but  in  this  instance  the  great  deeps  of 
her  nature  had  been  undermined  and  the  foun- 
tains thereof  were  fain  to  break  forth. 

How  long  she  lay  there,  warmth  coming  grad- 
ually to  her  under  the  direct  rays  of  the  sun,  she 
did  not  know,  and  it  was  a  strange  thing  that 
caused  her  to  arise.  It  grew  suddenly  dark 
over  her  head.  She  looked  up  and  a  rim  of 
frightful,  black,  dense  clouds  had  suddenly  blot- 
ted out  the  sun.  The  clouds  were  lined  with 
gold  and  silver  and  the  long  rays  shot  from  be- 
hind the  somber  blind  over  the  yet  uncovered  por- 
tions of  the  heaven,  but  the  clouds  moved  with 
the  Irresistible  swiftness  and  steadiness  of  a  great 
deluge.  The  wall  of  them  lowered  above  her 
head  while  they  extended  steadily  and  rapidly 
across  the  sky  toward  the  other  side  of  the  caiion 
and  the  mountain  wall. 

A  storm  was  brewing  such  as  she  had  never 
seen,  such  as  she  had  no  experience  to  enable  her 
to  realize  Its  malign  possibilities.  Nay,  It  was 
now  at  hand.     She  had  no  clew,  however,  of  what 


g6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

was  toward,  how  terrible  a  danger  overshadowed 
her.  Frightened  but  unconscious  of  all  the  men- 
ace of  the  hour  her  thoughts  flew  down  the  caiion 
to  the  camp.  She  must  hasten  there.  She 
looked  for  her  watch  which  she  had  picked  from 
the  grass  and  which  she  had  not  yet  put  on;  the 
grizzly  had  stepped  upon  it,  it  was  irretrievably 
ruined.  She  judged  from  her  last  glimpse  of 
the  sun  that  it  must  now  be  early  afternoon.  She 
rose  to  her  feet  and  staggered  with  weakness,  she 
had  eaten  nothing  since  morning,  and  the  nervous 
shock  and  strain  through  which  she  had  gone  had 
reduced  her  to  a  pitiable  condition. 

Her  luncheon  had  fortunately  escaped  un- 
harmed. In  a  big  pocket  of  her  short  skirt  there 
was  a  small  flask  of  whiskey,  which  her  Uncle 
Robert  had  required  her  to  take  with  her.  She 
felt  sick  and  faint,  but  she  knew  that  she  must 
eat  if  she  was  to  make  the  journey,  difficult  as  it 
might  prove,  back  to  the  camp.  She  forced  her- 
self to  take  the  first  mouthful  of  bread  and  meat 
she  had  brought  with  her,  but  when  she  had  tasted 
she  needed  no  further  incentive,  she  ate  to  the 
last  crumb;  she  thought  this  was  the  time  she 
needed  stimulants  too,  and  mingling  the  cold  wa- 
ter from  the  brook  with  a  little  of  the  ardent 
spirit  from  the  flask  she  drank.  Some  of  the 
chill  had  worn  off,  some  of  the  fatigue  had  gone. 


The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood   97 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  started  down  the 
canon ;  her  bloody  sweater  still  lay  on  the  ground 
with  other  things  of  which  she  was  heedless.  It 
had  grown  colder  but  she  realized  that  the  climb 
down  the  canon  would  put  her  stagnant  blood  in 
circulation  and  all  would  be  well. 

Before  she  began  the  descent  of  the  pass,  she 
cast  one  long  glance  backward  whither  the  man 
had  gone.  Whence  came  he,  who  was  he,  what 
had  he  seen,  where  was  he  now?  She  thanked 
God  for  his  interference  in  one  breath  and  hated 
him  for  his  presence  in  the  other. 

The  whole  sky  was  now  black  with  drifting 
clouds,  lightning  flashed  above  her  head,  mut- 
tered peals  of  thunder,  terrifically  ominous,  rocked 
through  the  silent  hills.  The  noise  was  low  and 
subdued  but  almost  continuous.  With  a  singu- 
lar and  uneasy  feeling  that  she  was  being  ob- 
served, she  started  down  the  canon,  plunging 
desperately  through  the  trees,  leaping  the  brook 
from  side  to  side  where  it  narrowed,  seeking  ever 
the  easiest  way.  She  struggled  on,  panting  with 
sudden  inexplicable  terror  almost  as  bad  as  that 
which  had  overwhelmed  her  an  hour  before  — 
and  growing  more  intense  every  moment,  to  such 
a  tragic  pass  had  the  day  and  its  happenings 
brought  her. 

Poor  girl,   awful  experience  really  was  to  be 


98  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

hers  that  day.  The  Fates  sported  with  her — > 
bodily  fear,  outraged  modesty,  mental  anguish 
and  now  the  terror  of  the  storm. 

The  clouds  seemed  to  sink  lower,  until  they 
almost  closed  about  her.  Long  gray  ghostly 
arms  reached  out  toward  her.  It  grew  darker 
and  darker  in  the  depths  of  the  canon.  She 
screamed  aloud  —  in  vain. 

Suddenly  the  rolling  thunder  peals  concentrated, 
balls  of  fire  leaped  out  of  the  heavens  and  struck 
the  mountains  where  she  could  actually  see  them. 
There  are  not  words  to  describe  the  tremendous 
crashings  which  seemed  to  splinter  the  hills,  to  be 
succeeded  by  brief  periods  of  silence,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  louder  and  more  terrific  detonations. 

In  one  of  those  appalling  alternations  from 
sound  to  silence  she  heard  a  human  cry  —  an  an- 
swering cry  to  her  own!  It  came  from  the  hills 
behind  her.  It  must  proceed,  she  thought,  from 
the  man.  She  could  not  meet  that  man;  although 
she  craved  human  companionship  as  never  be- 
fore, she  did  not  want  his.  She  could  not  bear  it. 
Better  the  wrath  of  God,  the  fury  of  the  tempest. 

Heedless  of  the  sharp  note  of  warning,  of  ap- 
peal, in  the  voice  ere  it  was  drowned  by  another 
roll  of  thunder,  she  plunged  on  In  the  darkness. 
The  canon  narrowed  here,  she  made  her  way 
down  the  ledges,  leaping  recklessly  from  rock  to 


The  Bear,  the  Man  and  the  Flood      99 

rock,  slipping,  falling,  grazing  now  one  side,  now 
the  other,  hurling  herself  forward  with  white 
face  and  bruised  body  and  torn  hands  and  throb- 
bing heart  that  would  fain  burst  Its  bonds.  There 
was  once  an  ancient  legend  of  a  human  creature, 
menaced  by  all  the  furies,  pitilessly  pursued  by 
every  malefic  spirit  of  earth  and  air;  like  him  this 
sweet  young  girl,  innocent,  lovely,  erstwhile  happy, 
fled  before  the  storm. 

And  then  the  heavens  opened,  the  fountains  of 
the  great  deeps  were  broken  down,  and  with  abso- 
lute llteralness  the  floods  descended.  The  burst- 
ing clouds,  torn  asunder  by  the  wild  winds,  riven 
by  the  pent  up  lightning  within  their  black  and 
turgid  breasts,  disburdened  themselves.  The  wa- 
ter came  down,  as  It  did  of  old  when  God  washed 
the  face  of  the  world.  In  a  flood.  The  narrow 
of  the  canon  was  filled  ten,  twenty,  thirty  feet  in 
a  moment  by  the  cloud  burst.  The  black  water 
rolled  and  foamed,  surging  like  the  rapids  at 
Niagara. 

The  body  of  the  girl,  utterly  unprepared,  was 
caught  up  in  a  moment  and  flung  like  a  bolt  from 
a  catapult  down  the  seething  sea  filled  with  the 
trunks  of  the  trees  and  the  debris  of  the  moun- 
tains, tossing  almost  humanly  in  the  wild  con- 
fusion. She  struck  out  strongly,  swimming  more 
because  of  the  instinct  of  life  than  for  any  other 


[100  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

reason.  A  helpless  atom  In  the  boiling  flood. 
Growing  every  minute  greater  and  greater  as  the 
angry  skies  disgorged  themselves  of  their  pent 
up  torrents  upon  her  devoted  head. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DEATH,    LIFE  AND  THE  RESURRECTION 

The  man  was  coming  back  from  one  of^  his  rare 
visits  to  the  settlements.  iAfctad-  6f  him''h'e!  drove 
a  train  of  burros  who,  y/clLbrokQii'to  the,ir  wark, 
followed  with  docility  the  wise  old  leader 'in  the 
advance.  The  burros  were  laden  with  his  sup- 
plies for  the  approaching  winter.  The  season 
was  late,  the  mountains  would  soon  be  Impassable 
on  account  of  the  snow,  indeed  he  chose  the  late 
season  always  for  his  buying  in  order  that  he 
might  not  be  followed  and  it  was  his  habit  to  buy 
in  different  places  In  different  years  that  his  re- 
peated and  expected  presence  at  one  spot  might 
not  arouse  suspicion. 

Intercourse  with  his  fellow  men  was  limited 
to  this  yearly  visit  to  a  settlement  and  even  that 
was  of  the  briefest  nature,  confined  always  to  the 
business  in  hand.  Even  when  busy  In  the  town 
he  pitched  a  small  tent  In  the  open  on  the  out- 
skirts and  dwelt  apart.  No  men  there  in  those 
days  pried  into  the  business  of  other  men  too 
closely.  Curiosity  was  neither  safe  nor  neces- 
sary.    If  he  aroused  transient  Interest  or  specu- 

lOI 


102  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

lation  It  soon  died  away.  He  vanished  into  the 
mountains  and  as  he  came  no  more  to  that  place, 
he  was  soon  forgotten. 

Withdrawing  from  his  fellow  men  and  avoid- 
ing their  society,  this  man  was  never  so  satisfied 
as  when  alone  in  the  silent  hills.  His  heart  and 
spirit  rose  with  every  step  he  made  away  from 
the  maia  traveled  roads  or  the  more  difficult 
mountain  frails. 

For  several  days  he  journeyed  through  the 
mountains,  choosing  the  wildest  and  most  inac- 
cessible parts  for  his  going.  Amid  the  canons 
and  peaks  he  threaded  his  way  with  unerring  ac- 
curacy, ascending  higher  and  higher  until  at 
last  he  reached  the  mountain  aerie,  the  lonely 
hermitage,  where  he  made  his  home.  There 
he  reveled  In  his  Isolation.  What  had  been 
punishment,  expiation,  had  at  last  become 
pleasure. 

Civilization  was  bursting  through  the  hills  in 
every  direction,  railways  were  being  pushed 
hither  and  thither,  the  precious  metals  were  be- 
ing discovered  at  various  places  and  after  them 
came  hoards  of  men  and  with  them  —  God  save 
the  mark  —  women;  but  his  section  of  the  coun- 
try had  hitherto  been  unvisited  even  by  hunters, 
explorers,  miners  or  pleasure  seekers.  He  was 
glad,  he  had  grown  to  love  the  spot  where  he  had 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     103 

made  his  home,  and  he  had  no  wish  to  be  forced, 
like  little  Joe,  to  move  on. 

Once  a  man  who  loved  the  strife,  noble  or  ig- 
noble, of  the  madding  crowd,  he  had  grown  ac- 
customed to  silence,  habituated  to  solitude. 
Winter  and  summer  alike  he  roamed  the  moun- 
tains, delving  into  every  forest,  exploring  every 
hidden  caiion,  surmounting  every  inaccessible 
peak;  no  storm,  no  snow,  no  condition  of  wind  or 
weather  daunted  him  or  stopped  him.  He  had 
no  human  companionship  by^-which  to  try  his 
mettle,  but  nevertheless  over  the  world  of  the 
material  which  lay  about  him  he  was  a  master  as 
he  was  a  man. 

He  found  some  occupation,  too,  in  the  follow- 
ing of  old  Adam's  inheritance,  during  the  pleas- 
ant months  of  summer  he  made  such  garden  as 
he  could.  His  profession  of  mining  engineer 
gave  him  other  employment.  Round  about  him 
lay  treasures  inestimable,  precious  metals 
abounded  in  the  hills.  He  had  located  them, 
tested,  analyzed,  estimated  the  wealth  that  was 
his  for  the  taking  —  it  was  as  valueless  to  him  as 
the  doubloons  and  golden  guineas  were  to  Sel- 
kirk on  his  island.  Yet  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  there  gave  him  an  energizing  sense  of  poten- 
tial power,  unconsciously  enormously  flattering  to 
his  self  esteem. 


[104  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Sometimes  he  wandered  to  the  extreme  verge 
of  the  range  and  on  clear  days  saw  far  beneath 
him  the  smoke  of  great  cities  of  the  plains.  He 
could  be  a  master  among  men  as  he  was  a  master 
among  mountains,  If  he  chose.  On  such  occa- 
sions he  laughed  cynically,  scornfully,  yet  rarely 
did  he  ever  give  way  to  such  emotion. 

A  great  and  terrible  sorrow  was  upon  him; 
cherishing  a  great  passion  he  had  withdrawn  him- 
self from  the  common  lot  to  dwell  upon  it. 
From  a  perverte4Ji^ense  of  expiation,  in  a  mad- 
ness of  grief,  horror  and  despair,  he  had  made 
himself  a  prisoner  to  his  ideas  In  the  desert  of  the 
mountains.  Back  to  his  cabin  he  would  hasten, 
and  there  surrounded  by  his  living  memories — > 
deathless  yet  of  the  dead !  —  he  would  recreate 
the  past  until  dejection  drove  him  abroad  on  the 
hills  to  meet  God  If  not  man  —  or  woman. 
Night  -  day,  sunshine  -  shadow,  heat  -  cold,  storm  - 
calm ;  these  were  his  life. 

Having  disburdened  his  faithful  animals  of 
their  packs  and  having  seen  them  safely  bestowed 
for  the  winter  In  the  corral  he  had  built  near  the 
base  of  the  cliff  upon  which  his  rude  home  was 
situated,  he  took  his  rifle  one  morning  for  one  of 
those  lonely  walks  across  the  mountains  from 
which  he  drew  such  comfort  because  he  fancied 
the  absence  of  man  conduced  to  the  nearness  of 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     105' 

God.  It  was  a  delusion  as  old  nearly  as  the 
Christian  religion.  Many  had  made  themselves 
hermits  in  the  past  in  remorse  for  sin  and  for 
love  toward  God;  this  man  had  buried  himself  In 
the  wilderness  In  part  for  the  first  of  these  causes, 
in  other  part  for  the  love  of  woman.  In  these 
days  of  swift  and  sudden  change  he  had  been  con- 
stant to  a  remembrance  and  abiding  In  his  deter- 
mination for  five  swift  moving  years.  The  world 
for  him  had  stopped  Its  progress  In  one  brief  mo- 
ment five  years  back  —  the  rest  was  silence.  What 
had  happened  since  then  out  yonder  where  people 
were  mated  he  did  not  know  and  he  did  not 
greatly  care. 

In  his  visits  to  the  settlements  he  asked  no 
questions,  he  bought  no  papers,  he  manifested  no 
interest  in  the  world;  something  In  him  had  died 
in  one  fell  moment,  and  there  had  been,  as  yet, 
no  resurrection.  Yet  life,  and  hope,  and  ambition 
do  not  die,  they  are  Indeed  eternal.     Resurgam! 

Life  with  Its  tremendous  activities.  Its  awful 
anxieties.  Its  wearing  strains,  its  rare  triumphs, 
Its  opportunities  for  achievement,  for  service; 
hope  with  its  illuminations,  Its  encouragements. 
Its  expectations;  ambition  with  its  stimulus,  Its 
force.  Its  power;  and  greatest  of  all  love,  itself 
alone  —  all  three  were  latent  in  him.  In  touch 
with  a  woman  these  had  gone.     Something  as 


\io6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

powerful  and  as  human  must  bring  them  baclc. 

It  was  against  nature  that  a  man  dowered  as 
he  should  so  live  to  himself  alone.  Some  voice 
should  cry  to  his  soul  In  Its  cerements  of  futile 
remorse,  vain  expiations  and  benumbing  recollec- 
tion ;  some  day  he  should  burst  these  grave  clothes 
self-wound  about  him  and  be  once  more  a  man 
and  a  master  among  men,  rather  than  the  hermit 
and  the  recluse  of  the  solitudes. 

He  did  not  allow  these  thoughts  to  come  into 
his  life.  Indeed  It  Is  quite  likely  that  he  scarcely 
realized  them  at  all  yet;  such  possibilities  did  not 
present  themselves  to  him;  perhaps  the  man  was 
a  little  mad  that  morning,  maybe  he  trembled  on 
the  verge  of  a  break  —  upward,  downward  I 
know  not  so  it  be  away  —  unconsciously  as  he 
strode  along  the  range. 

He  had  been  walking  for  some  hours,  and  as 
he  grew  thirsty  It  occurred  to  him  to  descend  to 
the  level  of  the  brook  which  he  heard  below  him 
and  of  which  he  sometimes  caught  a  flashing 
glimpse  through  the  trees.  He  scrambled  down 
the  rocks  and  found  himself  In  a  thick  grove  of. 
pine.  Making  his  way  slowly  and  with  great  dif- 
ficulty through  the  tangle  of  fallen  timber  which 
lay  In  every  direction,  the  sound  of  a  human  voice, 
the  last  thing  on  earth  to  be  expected  in  that  wil- 
derness, smote  upon  the  fearful  hollow  of  his  ear. 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection    107; 

Any  voice  or  any  word  then  and  there  would 
have  surprised  him,  but  there  was  a  note  of  aw- 
ful terror  in  this  voice,  a  sound  of  frightened  ap- 
peal. The  desperation  in  the  cry  left  him  no 
moment  for  thought,  the  demand  was  for  action. 
The  cry  was  not  addressed  to  him,  apparently, 
but  to  God,  yet  it  was  he  who  answered  —  sent 
doubtless  by  that  Over-looking  Power  who  works 
in  such  mysterious  ways  His  wonders  to  perform  I 

He  leaped  over  the  intervening  trees  to  the 
edge  of  the  forest  where  the  rapid  waters  ran. 
To  the  right  of  him  rose  a  huge  rock,  or  cliff,  in 
front  of  him  the  caiion  bent  sharply  to  the  north, 
and  beneath  him  a  few  rods  away  a  speck  of 
white  gleamed  above  the  water  of  a  deep  and  still 
pool  that  he  knew. 

There  was  a  woman  there! 

He  had  time  for  but  the  swiftest  glance,  he  had 
surmised  that  the  voice  was  not  that  of  a  man's 
voice  instantly  he  heard  it,  and  now  he  was  sure. 
She  stood  white  breast  deep  in  the  water  staring 
ahead  of  her.  The  next  instant  he  saw  what  had 
alarmed  her  —  a  Grizzly  Bear,  the  largest, 
fiercest,  most  forbidding  specimen  he  had  ever 
seen.  There  were  a  few  of  those  monsters  still 
left  in  the  range,  he  himself  had  killed  several. 

The  woman  had  not  seen  him.  He  was  a  si- 
lent man  by  long  habit;  accustomed  to  saying 


iio8'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

nothing,  he  said  nothing  now.  But  Instantly  aim- 
ing from  the  hip  with  a  wondrous  skill  and  a 
perfect  mastery  of  the  weapon,  and  indeed  It  was 
a  short  range  for  so  huge  a  target,  he  pumped 
bullet  after  bullet  from  his  heavy  Winchester 
into  the  evil  monarch  of  the  mountains.  The 
first  shot  did  for  him,  but  making  assurance 
doubly  and  trebly  sure,  he  fired  again  and  again. 
Satisfied  at  last  that  the  bear  was  dead,  and  ob- 
serving that  he  had  fallen  upon  the  clothes  of 
the  bather,  he  turned,  descended  the  stream  for  a 
few  yards  until  he  came  to  a  place  where  It  was 
easily  fordable,  stepped  through  It  without  a 
glance  toward  the  woman  shivering  in  the  water, 
whose  sensation,  so  far  as  a  mere  man  could,  he 
thoroughly  understood  and  appreciated,  and 
whose  modesty  he  fain  would  spare,  having  not 
forgotten  to  be  a  gentleman  In  five  years  of  his 
own  society  —  high  test  of  quality,  that. 

He  climbed  out  upon  the  bank,  uprooted  a 
small  tree,  rolled  the  bear  clear  of  the  heap  of 
woman^s  clothing  and  marched  straight  ahead  of 
him  up  the  canon  and  around  the  bend. 

Thereafter,  being  a  man,  he  did  not  faint  or 
fall,  but  completely  unnerved  he  leaned  against 
the  canon  wall,  dropped  his  gun  at  his  feet  and 
stood  there  trembling  mightily,  sweat  bedewing 
his  forehead,  and  the  sweat  had  not  come  from 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     109" 

his  exertions.  In  one  moment  the  whole  even 
tenor  of  his  life  was  changed.  The  one  glimpse 
he  had  got  of  those  white  shoulders,  that  pallid 
face,  that  golden  head  raised  from  the  water  had 
swept  him  back  five  years.  He  had  seen  once 
more  in  the  solitude  a  woman. 

Other  women  he  had  seen  at  a  distance  and 
avoided  in  his  yearly  visits  to  the  settlements  of 
course;  these  had  passed  him  by  remotely,  but 
here  he  was  brought  in  touch  intimately  with  hu- 
manity. He  who  had  taken  life  had  saved  it. 
A  woman  had  sent  him  forth,  was  a  woman  to 
call  him  back? 

He  cursed  himself  for  his  weakness.  He  shut 
his  eyes  and  summoned  other  memories.  How 
long  he  stood  there  he  could  not  have  told;  he  was 
fighting  a  battle  and  it  seemed  to  him  at  last  that 
he  triumphed.  Presently  the  consciousness  came 
to  him  that  perhaps  he  had  no  right  to  stand  there 
idle.  It  might  be  that  the  woman  needed  him,  per- 
haps she  had  fainted  in  the  water,  perhaps  — 
He  turned  toward  the  bend  which  concealed  him 
from  her  and  then  he  stopped.  Had  he  any 
right  to  intrude  upon  her  privacy?  He  must  of 
necessity  be  an  unwelcome  visitor  to  her,  he  had 
surprised  her  at  a  frightful  disadvantage;  he 
knew  instinctively,  although  the  fault  was  none 
of  his,  although  he  had  saved  her  life  thereby, 


11 1  o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

that  she  would  hold  him  and  him  alone  responsi- 
ble for  the  outrage  to  her  modesty,  and  although 
he  had  seen  little  at  first  glance  and  had  resolutely 
kept  his  eyes  away,  the  mere  consciousness  of  her 
absolute  helplessness  appealed  to  him  —  to  what 
was  best  and  noblest  In  him,  too.  He  must  go 
to  her.  Stay,  she  might  not  yet  be  clothed,  in 
which  event —  But  no,  she  must  be  dressed,  or 
dead,  by  this  time  and  In  either  case  he  would 
have  a  duty  to  discharge. 

It  devolved  upon  him  to  make  sure  of  her 
safety,  he  was  In  a  certain  sense  responsible  for  it, 
until  she  got  back  to  her  friends  wherever  they 
might  be;  but  he  persuaded  himself  that  other- 
wise he  did  not  want  to  see  her  again,  that  he  did 
not  wish  to  know  anything  about  her  future;  that 
he  did  not  care  whether  It  was  well  or  111  with  her; 
and  it  was  only  stern  obligation  which  drove  him 
toward  her  —  oh  fond  and  foolish  man  I 

He  compromised  with  himself  at  last  by  climb- 
ing the  ridge  that  had  shut  off  a  view  of  the  pool, 
and  looking  down  at  the  place  so  memorable  to 
him.  He  was  prepared  to  withdraw  instantly 
should  circumstances  warrant,  and  he  was  careful 
so  to  conceal  himself  as  to  give  no  possible  oppor- 
tunity for  her  to  discover  his  scrutiny. 

With  a  beating  heart  and  eager  eyes  he  searched 
the  spot.     There  lay  the  bear  and  a  little  distance 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection    hi 

away  prone  on  the  grass,  clothed  but  whether  in 
her  right  mind  or  not  he  could  not  tell,  lay  the 
woman.  For  a  moment,  as  he  bent  a  concen- 
trated eager  gaze  upon  her,  he  thought  she  might 
have  fainted  or  that  she  might  have  died.  In  any 
event  he  reflected  that  she  had  strength  and  nerve 
and  will  to  have  dressed  herself  before  either  of 
these  things  had  happened.  She  lay  motionless 
under  his  gaze  for  so  long  that  he  finally  made  up 
His  mind  that  common  humanity  required  him  to 
go  to  her  assistance. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  on  the  instant  and  saw  the 
woman  also  lift  herself  from  the  grass  as  if 
moved  by  a  similar  Impulse.  In  his  intense  pre- 
occupation he  had  failed  to  observe  the  signs  of 
the  times.  A  sense  of  the  overcast  sky  came  to 
him  suddenly,  as  it  did  to  her,  but  with  a  differ- 
ence. He  knew  what  was  about  to  happen,  his 
experience  told  him  much  more  as  to  the  awful 
potentialities  of  the  tempest  than  she  could  possi- 
bly imagine.  She  must  be  warned  at  once,  she 
must  leave  the  canon  and  get  up  on  the  higher 
ground  without  delay.  His  duty  was  plain  and 
yet  he  did  it  not.  He  could  not.  The  pressure 
upon  him  was  not  yet  strong  enough. 

A  half  dozen  times  as  he  watched  her  delib- 
erately sitting  there  eating,  he  opened  his  mouth 
to  cry  to  her,  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 


'112  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

it.  A  strange  timidity  oppressed  him,  halted 
him,  held  him  back.  A  man  cannot  stay  away 
five  years  from  men  and  woman  and  be  himself 
with  them  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  And  when 
to  that  instinctive  and  acquired  reluctance  against 
which  he  struggled  in  vain,  he  added  the  assur- 
ance that  whatever  his  message  he  would  be  un- 
welcome on  account  of  what  had  gone  before, 
he  could  not  force  himself  to  go  to  her  or  even 
to  call  to  her,  not  yet.  He  would  keep  her  under 
surveillance,  however,  and  if  the  worst  came  he 
could  intervene  in  time  to  rescue  her.  He  counted 
without  his  cost,  his  usual  judgment  bewildered. 
So  he  followed  her  through  the  trees  and  down 
the  bank. 

Now  he  was  so  engrossed  in  her  and  so  agi- 
tated that  his  caution  slept,  his  experience  was 
forgotten.  The  storm  in  his  own  breast  was  so 
great  that  it  overshadowed  the  storm  brewing 
above.  Her  way  was  easier  than  his  and  he  had 
fallen  some  distance  behind  when  suddenly  there 
rushed  upon  him  the  fact  that  a  frightful  and  un- 
looked  for  cloudburst  was  about  to  occur  above 
their  heads.  A  lightning  flash  and  a  thunder  clap 
at  last  arrested  his  attention.  Then,  but  not  until 
then,  he  flung  everything  to  the  winds  and  amid 
the  sudden  and  almost  continuous  peals  of  thun- 
der he  sent  cry  after  cry  toward  her  which  were 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     113 

lost  in  the  tremendous  diapason  of  sound  that 
echoed  and  re-echoed  through  the  rifts  of  the 
mountains. 

"  Wait,"  he  cried  again  and  again.  "  Come 
up  higher.  Get  out  of  the  caiion.  You'll  be 
drowned.'* 

But  he  had  waited  too  long,  the  storm  had  de- 
veloped too  rapidly,  she  was  too  far  ahead  of 
and  beneath  him.  She  heard  Nothing  but  the 
sound  of  a  voice,  shrill,  menacing,  fraught  with 
terror  for  her,  not  a  word  distinguishable; 
scarcely  to  her  disturbed  soul  even  a  human  voice, 
It  seemed  like  the  wierd  cry  of  some  wild  spirit 
of  the  storm.  It  sounded  to  her  overwrought 
nerves  so  utterly  inhuman  that  she  only  ran  the 
faster. 

The  canon  swerved  and  then  doubled  back,  but 
he  knew  its  direction;  losing  sight  of  her  for  the 
moment  he  plunged  straight  ahead  through  the 
trees,  cutting  off  the  bend,  leaping  with  super- 
human agility  and  strength  over  rocks  and  logs 
until  he  reached  a  point  where  the  rift  narrowed 
between  two  walls  and  ran  deeply.  There  and 
then  the  heavens  opened  and  the  floods  came  and 
beat  into  that  open  maw  of  that  vast  crevasse 
and  filled  it  full  in  an  instant. 

As  the  deluge  came  roaring  down,  bearing  on- 
ward the  sweepings  and  scourings  of  the  moun- 


114  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

tains,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white  desperate 
face  rising,  falling,  now  disappearing,  now  com- 
ing into  view  again.  In  the  foamy  midst  of  the  tor- 
rent. He  ran  to  the  cliff  bank  and  throwing  aside 
his  gun  he  scrambled  down  the  wall  to  a  certain 
shelf  of  the  rock  over  which  the  rising  water 
broke  thinly.  Ordinarily  it  was  twenty  feet  above 
the  creek  bed.  Bracing  himself  against  a  jagged 
projection  he  waited,  praying.  The  canon  was 
here  so  narrow  that  he  could  have  leaped  to  the 
other  side  and  yet  it  was  too  wide  for  him  to 
reach  her  If  the  water  did  not  sweep  her  toward 
his  feet.  It  was  aD  done  In  a  second  —  fortunately 
a  projection  on  the  other  side  threw  the  force  of 
the  torrent  toward  him  and  with  it  came  the 
woman. 

She  was  almost  spent;  she  had  been  struck  by  a 
log  upheaved  by  some  mighty  wave,  her  hands 
were  moving  feebly,  her  eyes  were  closed,  she  was 
drowning,  dying,  but  Indomitably  battling  on. 
He  stooped  down  and  as  a  surge  lifted  her  he 
threw  his  arm  around  her  waist  and  then  braced 
himself  against  the  rock  to  sustain  the  full  thrust 
of  the  mighty  flood.  As  he  seized  her  she  gave 
way  suddenly,  as  If  after  having  done  all  that  she 
could  there  was  now  nothing  left  but  to  trust  her- 
self to  his  hand  and  God^s.     She  hung  a  dead 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     115 

weight  on  his  arm  in  the  ravening  water  which 
dragged  and  tore  at  her  madly. 

He  was  a  man  of  giant  strength,  but  the  strug- 
gle bade  fair  to  be  too  much  even  for  him.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  mountain  behind  him  was  giving 
way.  He  set  his  teeth,  he  tried  desperately  to 
hold  on,  he  thrust  out  his  right  hand,  holding  her 
with  the  other  one,  and  clawed  at  the  dripping 
rock  in  vain.  In  a  moment  the  torrent  mastered 
him  and  when  it  did  so  it  seized  him  with  fury 
and  threw  him  like  a  stone  from  a  sling  into  the 
seething  vortex  of  the  mid-stream.  But  in  all 
this  he  did  not,  he  would  not,  release  her. 

Such  was  the  swiftness  of  the  motion  with 
which  they  were  swept  downward  that  he  had  lit- 
tle need  to  swim;  his  only  effort  was  to  keep  his 
head  above  water  and  to  keep  from  being  dashed 
against  the  logs  that  tumbled  end  over  end,  or 
whirled  sideways,  or  were  jammed  into  clusters 
only  to  burst  out  on  every  hand.  He  struggled 
furiously  to  keep  himself  from  being  overwhelmed 
in  the  seething  madness,  and  what  was  harder,  to 
keep  the  lifeless  woman  in  his  arms  from  being 
stricken  or  wrenched  away.  He  knew  that  be- 
low the  narrows  where  the  caiion  widened  the 
water  would  subside,  the  awful  fury  of  the  rain 
would  presently  cease.     If  he  could  steer  clear 


ii6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

of  the  rocks  in  the  broad  he  might  win  to  land 
mth  her. 

The  chances  against  him  were  thousands  to 
nothing.  But  what  are  chances  In  the  eyes  of 
God.  The  man  in  his  solitude  had  not  forgot- 
ten to  pray,  his  habits  stood  him  In  good  stead 
now.  He  petitioned  shortly,  brokenly.  In  brief 
unspoken  words,  as  he  battled  through  the  long 
dragging  seconds. 

Fighting,  clinging,  struggling,  praying,  he  was 
swept  on.  Heavier  and  heavier  the  woman 
dragged  In  an  unconscious  heap.  It  would  have 
been  easier  for  him  If  he  had  let  her  go;  she 
would  never  know  and  he  could  then  escape. 
The  Idea  never  once  occurred  to  him.  He  had 
indeed  withdrawn  from  his  kind,  but  when  one 
depended  upon  him  all  the  old  appeal  of  weak 
humanity  awoke  quick  response  In  the  bosom  of 
the  strong.  He  would  die  with  the  stranger 
rather  than  yield  her  to  the  torrent  or  admit 
himself  beaten  and  give  up  the  fight.  So  the  con- 
scious and  the  unconscious  struggled  through  the 
narrow  of  the  canon. 

Presently  with  the  rush  and  hurl  of  a  bullet 
from  the  mouth  of  a  gun,  they  found  themselves 
In  a  shallow  lake  through  which  the  waters  still 
rushed  mightily,  breaking  over  rocks,  digging 
away  shallow  rooted  trees,  leaping,  biting,  snarl- 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     117 

ing,  tearing  at  the  big  walls  spread  away  on  either 
side.  He  had  husbanded  some  of  his  strength 
for  this  final  effort,  this  last  chance  of  escape. 
Below  them  at  the  other  end  of  this  open  the 
walls  came  together  again;  there  the  descent  was  ' 
sharper  than  before  and  the  water  ran  to  the 
opening  with  racing  speed.  Once  again  in  the 
torrent  and  they  would  be  swept  to  death  in  spite 
of  all. 

Shifting  his  grasp  to  the  woman's  hair,  now 
unbound,  he  held  her  with  one  hand  and  swam 
hard  with  the  other.  The  current  still  ran 
swiftly,  but  with  no  gigantic  upheaving  waves  as 
before.  It  was  more  easy  to  avoid  floating  tim- 
ber and  debris,  and  on  one  side  where  the  ground 
sloped  somewhat  gently  the  quick  water  flowed 
more  slowly.  He  struck  out  desperately  for  it, 
forcing  himself  away  from  the  main  stream  Into 
the  shallows  and  ever  dragging  the  woman.  Was 
it  hours  or  minutes  or  seconds  after  that  he  gained 
the  battle  and  neared  the  shore  at  the  lowest 
edge? 

He  caught  with  his  forearm,  as  the  torrent 
swerved  him  around,  a  stout  young  pine  so  deeply 
rooted  as  yet  to  have  withstood  the  flood.  Sum- 
moning that  last  reserve  of  strength  that  Is  be- 
stowed upon  uis  In  our  hour  of  need,  and  comes 
unless  from  God  we  know  not  whence,  he  drew 


ill 8  The  Chalice  of,  Courage 

himself  in  front  of  the  pine,  got  his  back  against 
it,  and  although  the  water  thundered  against  him 
still  —  only  by  comparison  could  it  be  called 
quieter  —  and  his  foothold  was  most  precarious, 
he  reached  down  carefully  and  grasped  the  woman 
'Under  the  shoulders.  His  position  was  a  cramped 
one,  but  by  the  power  of  his  arms  alone  he  lifted 
her  up  until  he  got  his  left  arm  about  her  waist 
again.     It  was  a  mighty  feat  of  strength  indeed. 

The  pine  stood  In  the  midst  of  the  water,  for 
even  on  the  farther  side  the  earth  was  overflowed 
but  the  water  was  stiller;  he  did  not  know  what 
might  be  there,  but  he  had  to  chance  it.  Lifting 
her  up  he  stepped  out,  fortunately  meeting  firm 
ground;  a  few  paces  and  he  reached  solid  rock 
above  the  flood.  He  raised  her  above  his  head 
and  laid  her  upon  the  shore,  then  with  the  very 
last  atom  of  all  his  force,  physical,  mental  and 
spiritual,  he  drew  himself  up  and  fell  panting  and 
utterly  exhausted  but  triumphant  by  her  side. 

The  cloud  burst  was  over,  but  the  rain  still 
beat  down  -upon  them,  the  thunder  still  roared 
above  them,  the  lightning  still  flashed  about  them, 
but  they  were  safe,  alive  if  the  woman  had  not 
died  in  his  arms.  He  had  done  a  thing  superhu- 
anan  —  no  man  knowing  conditions  would  have 
believed  It.  He  himself  would  have  declared  a 
thousand  times  Its  patent  impossibility. 


Death,  Life  and  the  Resurrection     119 

For  a  few  seconds  he  strove  to  recover  him- 
self; then  he  thought  of  the  flask  he  always  car- 
ried in  his  pocket.  It  was  gone ;  his  clothes  were 
ragged  and  torn,  they  had  been  ruined  by  his 
battle  with  the  waves.  The  girl  lay  where  he 
/  had  placed  her  on  her  back.  In  the  pocket  of 
her  hunting  skirt  he  noticed  a  little  protuberance ; 
the  pocket  was  provided  with  a  flap  and  tightly 
buttoned.  Without  hesitation  he  unbuttoned  it. 
There  was  a  flask  there,  a  little  silver  mounted 
affair;  by  some  miracle  it  had  not  been  broken. 
It  was  half  full.  With  nervous  hands  he  opened 
it  and  poured  some  of  its  contents  down  her 
throat;  then  he  bent  over  her  his  soul  in  his 
glance,  scarcely  knowing  what  to  do  next.  Pres- 
ently she  opened  her  eyes. 

And  there,  in  the  rain,  by  that  raging  torrent 
whence  he  had  drawn  her  as  it  were  from  the  jaws 
of  death  by  the  power  of  his  arm,  in  the  presence 
of  the  God  above  them,  this  man  and  this  woman 
looked  at  each  other  and  life  for  both  of  them 
was  no  longer  the  same. 


BOOK   III 
FORGETTING   AND   FORGOT 


CHAPTER   IX 

A  WILD  DASH  FOR  THE  HILLS 

Old  Kirkby,  who  had  been  lazily  mending  a  sad- 
dle the  greater  part  of  the  morning,  had  eaten  his 
dinner,  smoked  his  pipe  and  was  now  stretched 
out  on  the  grass  in  the  warm  sun  taking  a  nap. 
Mrs.  Maitland  was  drowsing  over  a  book  in  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  big  pines,  when  Pete, 
the  horse  wrangler,  who  had  been  wandering 
rather  far  down  the  canon  rounding  up  the  ever 
straying  stock,  suddenly  came  bursting  into  the 
camp. 

"Heavens!''  he  cried,  actually  Kicking  the 
prostrate  frontiersman  as  he  almost  stumbled 
over  him.    "  Wake  up,  old  man,  an'  —  " 

"  What  the  —  "  began  Kirkby  fiercely,  thus 
rudely  aroused  from  slumber  and  resentful  of  the 
daring  and  most  unusual  affront  to  his  dignity  and 
station,  since  all  men,  and  especially  the  younger 
ones,  held  him  in  great  honor. 

"  Look  there !  "  yelled  Pete  In  growing  excite- 
<ment  and  entirely  oblivious  to  his  lese-majeste, 
pointing  at  a  black  cloud  rolling  over  the  top  of 
the  range.     "  It'll  be  a  cloud  burst  sure,  we'll 

123 


!i24  The  Chalice  of  Courage' 

have  to  git  out  o'  here  an'  in  a  hurry  too.  DK, 
Mrs.  Maitland." 

By  this  time  KIrkby  was  on  his  feet.  The  storm 
had  stolen  upon  him  sleeping  and  unaware,  the 
configuration  of  the  caiion  having  completely  hid 
its  approach.  At  best  the  three  In  the  camp  could 
not  have  discovered  It  until  it  was  high  In  the 
heavens.  Now  the  clouds  were  already  approach- 
ing the  noonday  sun.  KIrkby  was  alive  to  the 
situation  at  once;  he  had  the  rare  ability  of  men 
of  action,  of  awakening  with  all  his  faculties  at 
instant  command;  he  did  not  have  to  rub  his  eyes 
and  wonder  where  he  was,  and  speculate  as  to 
what  was  to  be  done.  The  moment  that  his  eyes, 
following  Pete's  outstretched  arm,  discovered  the 
black  mass  of  clouds,  he  ran  toward  Mrs.  Malt- 
land,  and  standing  on  no  ceremony  he  shook  her 
vigorously  by  the  shoulder. 

"  We'll  have  to  run  for  our  lives,  ma'm,"  he 
said  briefly.  "  Pete,  drive  the  stock  up  on  the 
hills,  fur  as  you  kin,  the  bosses  pertlkler,  they'll 
be  more  to  us  an'  them  burros  must  take  keer  of 
themselves." 

Pete  needed  no  urging,  he  was  off  like  a  shot 
in  the  direction  of  the  Improvised  corral.  He 
loosed  the  horses  from  their  pickets  and  started 
them  up  the  steep  trail  that  led  down  from  the 
hogback  to  the  camp  by  the  water's  edge.     He 


A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills       125* 

also  tried  to  start  the  burros  he  had  just  rounded 
up  in  the  same  direction.  Some  of  them  would 
go  and  some  of  them  would  not.  He  had  his 
hands  full  In  an  Instant.  Meanwhile  KIrkby  did 
not  linger  by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Maltland;  with  In- 
credible agility  for  so  old  a  man  he  ran  over  to 
the  tent  where  the  stores  were  kept  and  began 
picking  out  such  articles  of  provision  as  he  could 
easiest  carry. 

"  Come  over  here,  Mrs.  Maltland,"  he  cried. 
**  We'll  have  to  carry  up  on  the  hill  somethin'  to 
keep  us  from  starvin'  till  we  git  back  to  town. 
We  hadn't  orter  camped  In  this  yere  pocket  no- 
ways, but  who'd  ever  expected  anything  like  this 
now." 

"  What  do  you  fear?  "  asked  the  woman,  join- 
ing him  as  she  spoke  and  waiting  for  his  direc- 
tions. 

"  Looks  to  me  like  a  cloud  bust,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "  Creek's  pretty  full  now,  an'  If  she  does 
break  everything  below  yere'll  go  to  hell  on  a 
run." 

It  was  evidence  of  his  perturbation  and  anxiety 
that  he  used  such  language  which,  however.  In 
the  emergency  did  not  seem  unwarranted  even  to 
the  refined  ear  of  Mrs.  Maltland. 

"  Is  It  possible?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Taint  only  possible,  It's  sartln.     Now  ma'm," 


X26  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

he  hastily  bundled  up  a  lot  of  miscellaneous  pro* 
visions  in  a  small  piece  of  canvas,  tied  it  up  and 
handed  It  to  her,  **  that'll  be  for  you."  Im- 
imediately  after  he  made  up  a  much  larger 
bundle  In  another  tent  fly,  adding,  "  an'  this  is 
mine." 

"  Oh,  let  us  hurry,"  cried  Mrs.  Maitland,  as 
a  peal  of  thunder,  low,  muttered,  menacing,  burst 
from  the  flying  clouds  now  obscuring  the  sun,  and 
rolled  over  the  camp. 

*'  We've  got  time  enough  yit,"  answered  Kirkby 
coolly  calculating  their  chances.  "  Best  git  your 
slicker  on,  you'll  need  It  In  a  few  minutes." 

Mrs.  Maitland  ran  to  her  own  tent  and  soon 
came  out  with  sou'wester  and  yellow  oil  skins  com- 
pletely covering  her.  Kirkby  meantime  had 
donned  his  own  old  battered  soiled  rain  clothes 
and  had  grabbed  up  Pete's. 

"  I  brought  the  children's  coats  along,"  said 
Mrs.  Maitland,  extending  three  others. 

*'  Good,"  said  Kirkby,  "  now  we'll  take  our 
packs  an'  —  " 

**  Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger  to  Rob- 
ert?" 

"  He'll  git  nothin'  worse  'n  a  wettin',"  returned 
the  old  man  confidently.  "  If  we'd  pitched  the 
tents  up  on  the  hogback,  that's  all  we'd  a  been 
in  for." 


A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills       127 

"  I  have  to  leave  the  tents  and  all  the  things,'* 
said  Mrs.  Maltland. 

"  You  can  stay  with  them,"  answered  Kirkby, 
dryly,  "  but  if  what  I  think  's  goin'  to  happen 
comes  off,  you  won't  have  no  need  of  nothin'  no 
more —    Here  she  comes." 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  sudden  swift  down- 
pour of  rain,  not  in  drops,  but  in  a  torrent. 
Catching  up  his  own  pack  and  motioning  the 
woman  to  do  likewise  with  her  load,  Kirkby  caught 
her  by  the  hand,  and  half  led,  half  dragged  her 
up  the  steep  trail  from  the  brook  to  the  ridge 
which  bordered  the  side  of  the  caiion.  The 
canon  was  much  wider  here  than  further  up  and 
there  was  much  more  room  and  much  more  space 
for  the  water  to  spread.  Yet,  they  had  to  hurry 
for  their  lives  as  it  was.  They  had  gone  up 
scarcely  a  hundred  feet  when  the  disgorgement 
of  the  heavens  took  place.  The  water  fell  with 
such  force,  directness  and  continuousness  that  it 
almost  beat  them  down.  It  ran  over  the  trail 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain  in  sheets  like  wa- 
terfalls. It  required  all  the  old  man's  skill  and 
address  to  keep  himself  and  his  companion  from 
losing  their  footing  and  falling  down  Into  the 
seething  tumult  below. 

The  tents  went  down  in  an  instant.  Where 
there  had  been  a  pleasant  bit  of  meadow  land  was 


128  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

now  a  muddy  tossing  lake  of  black  water.  Some 
of  the  horses  and  most  of  the  burros  which  Pete 
had  been  unable  to  do  anything  with  were  en- 
gulfed in  a  moment.  The  two  on  the  mountain 
side  could  see  them  swimming  for  dear  life  as 
they  swept  down  the  caiion.  Pete  himself,  with 
a  few  of  the  animals,  was  already  scrambling  up 
to  safety. 

Speech  was  impossible  between  the  noise  of  the 
falling  rain  and  the  incessant  peals  of  thunder, 
but  by  persistent  gesture  old  Kirkby  urged  the 
terrified  trembling  woman  up  the  trail  until  they 
finally  reached  the  top  of  the  hogback,  where 
under  the  poor  shelter  of  the  stunted  pines  they 
joined  Pete  with  such  of  the  horses  as  he  had 
been  able  to  drive  up.  Kirkby  taking  a  thought 
for  the  morrow,  noted  that  there  were  four  of 
them,  enough  to  pull  the  wagon  if  they  could  get 
back  to  it. 

After  the  first  awful  deluge  of  the  cloud  burst 
it  'moderated  slightly,  but  the  hard  rain  came 
down  steadily,  the  wind  rose  as  well  and  in  spite 
of  their  oil  skins  they  were  soon  wet  and  cold. 
It  was  impossible  to  make  a  fire,  there  was  no 
place  for  them  to  go,  nothing  to  be  done,  they 
could  only  remain  where  they  were  and  wait. 
After  a  half  hour  of  exposure  to  the  merciless 


A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills        129 

fury  of  the  storm,  a  thought  came  suddenly  to 
Mrs.  Maitland;  she  leaned  over  and  caught  the 
frontiersman  by  his  wet  sleeve.  Seeing  that  she 
wished  to  speak  to  him  he  bent  his  head  toward 
her  lips. 

"Enid,"  she  cried,  pointing  down  the  canon; 
she  had  not  thought  before  of  the  position  of  the 
girl. 

KIrkby,  who  had  not  forgotten  her,  but  who 
had  Instantly  realized  that  he  could  do  nothing 
for  her,  shook  his  head,  lifted  his  eyes  and  sol- 
emnly pointed  his  finger  up  to  the  gray  skies.  He 
had  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Maitland  before,  what 
was  the  use  of  troubling  her. 

"  God  only  kin  help  her,"  he  cried;  "  she's  be- 
yond the  help  of  man." 

Ah,  Indeed,  old  trapper,  whence  came  the  confi- 
dent assurance  of  that  dogmatic  statement?  For 
as  It  chanced  at  that  very  moment  the  woman 
for  whose  peril  your  heart  was  wrung  was  being 
lifted  out  of  the  torrent  by  a  man's  hand!  And, 
yet,  who  shall  say  that  the  old  hunter  was  not 
right,  and  that  the  man  himself,  as  men  of  old 
have  been,  was  sent  from  God? 

"  It  can't  be,"  began  Mrs.  Maitland  in  great 
anguish  for  the  girl  she  had  grown  to  love. 

"  Ef  she  seed  the  storm  an'  realized  what  it 


fi3o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

was,  an'  had  sense  enough  to  climb  up  the  canon 
wall,"  answered  the  other,  "  she  won't  be  no 
worse  off  'n  we  are ;  ef  not  — ^ " 

Mrs.  Maltland  had  only  to  look  down  into  the 
seething  caldron  to  understand  the  possibility  of 
that  ''  If." 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  let  us  pray  for  her  that  she 
sought  the  hills." 

"  IVe  been  a  doin'  it,"  said  the  old  man  gruffly. 

He  had  a  deep  vein  of  piety  In  him,  but  like 
other  rich  ores  It  had  to  be  mined  for  In  the  depths 
before  It  was  apparent. 

By  slow  degrees  the  water  subsided,  and  after 
a  long  while  the  rain  ceased,  a  heavy  mist  lay  on 
the  mountains  and  the  night  approached  without 
any  further  appearance  of  the  veiled  sun.  To- 
ward evening  Robert  Maltland  with  the  three 
men  and  the  three  children  joined  the  wretched 
trio  above  the  camp.  Maltland,  wild  with  ex- 
citement and  apprehension,  had  pressed  on  ahead 
of  the  rest.  It  was  a  glad  faced  man  Indeed  who 
ran  the  last  few  steps  of  the  rough  way  and 
clasped  his  wife  In  his  arms,  but  as  he  did  so  he 
noticed  that  one  was  missing. 

"  Where  Is  Enid?  "  he  cried,  releasing  his  wife. 

"  She  went  down  the  canon  early  this  mornin' 
intendin'  to  stay  all  day,"  slowly  and  reluctantly 
answered  old  KIrkby,  "  an'  ^ —  " 


A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills       131! 

He  paused  there,  it  wasn't  necessary  for  him 
to  say  anything  more. 

Maltland  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  trail  and 
looked  down  Into  the  valley.  It  had  been  swept 
clean  of  the  camp.  Rocks  had  been  rolled  over 
upon  the  meadow  land,  trunks  of  trees  torn  up 
by  the  roots  had  lodged  against  them.  It  was  a 
scene  of  desolate  and  miserable  confusion  and 
disaster. 

"  Oh,  Robert,  don't  you  think  she  may  be 
safe?"  asked  Mrs.  Maltland. 

"  There's  jest  a  chance,  I  think,  that  she  may 
have  susplcloned  the  storm  an'  got  out  of  the 
caiion,"  suggested  the  old  frontiersman. 

"  A  slim  chance,"  answered  Maltland  gloom- 
ily. "  I  wouldn't  have  had  this  happen  for  any- 
thing on  earth." 

"  Nor  me ;  I'd  a  heap  ruther  It  had  got  me  than 
her,"  said  KIrkby  simply. 

"  I  didn't  see  It  coming,"  continued  Maltland 
nodding  as  If  KIrkby's  statement  were  to  be  ac- 
cepted as  a  matter  of  course,  as  Indeed  It  was. 
*'  We  were  on  the  other  slope  of  the  mountain, 
until  It  was  almost  over  head." 

"  Nuther  did  I.  To  tell  the  truth  I  was  lyin' 
down  nappin'  w'en  Pete,  yere,  who'd  been  down 
the  caiion  rounding  up  some  of  the  critters,  came 
bustin'  in  on  us." 


!I32  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  I  ain't  saved  but  four  bosses,"  said  Pete 
mournfully,  "and  tbere's  only  one  burro  on  the 
hogback." 

"  We  came  back  as  fast  as  we  could,"  said 
Maltland.  "  I  pushed  on  ahead.  George,  Brad- 
shaw  and  Phillips  are  bringing  Bob  and  the  girls. 
We  must  search  the  caiion." 

"  It  can't  be  done  to-night,  old  man,"  said 
KIrkby. 

"  I  tell  you  we  can't  wait.  Jack!  " 

"  We've  got  to.  Fm  as  willln'  to  lay  down  my 
life  for  that  young  gal  as  anybody  on  earth,  but 
in  this  yere  mist  an'  as  black  a  night  as  it's 
goin'  to  be,  we  couldn't  go  ten  rod  without  killln' 
ourselves  an'  we  couldn't  see  nothin'  noways." 

"  But  she  may  be  in  the  canon." 

*'  If  she's  in  the  canon  'twon't  make  no  differ- 
ence to  her  w'ether  we  finds  her  to-morrer  or 
next  day  or  next  year.  Bob." 

Maltland  groaned  in  anguish. 

"  I  can't  stay  here  inactive,"  he  persisted  stub- 
bornly. 

"  It's  a  hard  thing,  but  we  got  to  wait  till 
mornin'.  Ef  she  got  out  of  the  caiion  and 
climbed  up  on  the  hogback  she'll  be  all  right; 
she'll  soon  find  out  she  can't  make  no  progress 
in  this  mist  and  darkness.  No,  old  friend,  we're 
up  agin  It  hard;  we  jest  got  to  stay  the  night  w'ere 


A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills       133 

we  are  an'  as  long  as  we  got  to  wait  we  might  as 
well  make  ourselves  as  comfortable  as  possible. 
For  the  wimmen  an'  children  anyway.  I  fetched 
up  some  ham  and  some  canned  goods  and  other 
eatln's  In  these  yere  canvas  sacks,  we  might  kindle 
afire  —  " 

"  It's  hardly  possible,"  said  Maitland,  "  we 
shall  have  to  eat  It  cold." 

"Oh,  Robert,"  pleaded  his  wife,  "isn't  It 
possible  that  she  may  have  escaped?" 

"  Possible,  yes,  but  —  " 

"  We  won't  give  up  hope,  ma'am,"  said  KIrkby, 
"  until  to-morrer  w'en  we've  had  a  look  at  the 
canon." 

By  this  time  the  others  joined  the  party. 
Phillips  and  Bradshaw  showed  the  stuff  that  was 
in  them ;  they  immediately  volunteered  to  go  down 
the  canon  at  once,  knowing  little  or  nothing  of  Its 
dangers  and  indifferent  to  what  they  did  know, 
but  as  KIrkby  had  pointed  out  the  attempt  was 
clearly  impossible.  Maitland  bitterly  reproached 
himself  for  having  allowed  the  girl  to  go  alone, 
and  In  those  self  reproaches  old  KIrkby  joined. 

They  were  too  wet  and  cold  to  sleep,  there  was 
no  shelter  and  it  was  not  until  early  in  the  morn- 
ing they  succeeded  in  kindling  a  fire.  Meanwhile 
the  men  talked  the  situation  over  very  carefully. 
They  were  two  days'  journey  from  the  wagons. 


134  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

It  was  necessary  that  the  woman  and  children 
should  be  taken  back  at  once.  KIrkby  hadn't 
been  able  to  save  much  more  than  enough  to  eat 
to  get  them  back  to  a  ranch  or  settlement,  and  on 
very  short  rations  at  best.  It  was  finally  decided 
that  George  and  Pete  with  Mrs.  Maitland,  the 
two  girls  and  the  youngster  should  go  back  to  the 
wagon,  drive  to  the  nearest  settlement,  leave  the 
women  and  then  return  on  horseback  with  all 
speed  to  meet  Maitland  and  KIrkby  who  would 
meanwhile  search  the  caiion. 

The  two  men  from  the  east  had  to  go  back  with 
the  others  although  they  pleaded  gallantly  to  be 
allowed  to  remain  with  the  two  who  were  to  take 
up  the  hunt  for  Enid.  Maitland  might  have 
kept  them  with  him,  but  that  meant  retaining  a 
larger  portion  of  the  scanty  supplies  that  had  been 
saved,  and  he  was  compelled  against  his  will  to 
refuse  their  requests.  Leaving  barely  enough  to 
subsist  Maitland  and  KIrkby  for  three  or  four 
days,  or  until  the  return  of  the  relief  party,  the 
groups  separated  at  daybreak. 

"  Oh,  Robert,"  pleaded  his  wife,  as  he  kissed 
her  good-by,  "  take  care  of  yourself,  but  find 
Enid.'* 

"  Yes,"  answered  her  husband,  "  I  shall,  never 
fear,  but  I  must  find  the  dear  girl  or  discover  what 
has  become  of  her." 


A  Wild  Dash  for  the  Hills       135 

There  was  not  time  for  further  leave  taking. 
'A  few  hand  clasps  from  man  to  man  and  then 
Robert  Maltland  standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
group  bowed  his  head  In  the  sunny  morning,  for 
the  sky  again  was  clear,  and  poured  out  a  brief 
prayer  that  God  would  prosper  them,  that  they 
would  find  the  child  and  that  they  would  all  be 
together  again  In  health  and  happiness.  And 
without  another  word,  he  and  Kirkby  plunged 
down  the  side  of  the  caiion,  the  others  taking 
up  their  weary  march  homeward  with  sad  hearts 
and  in  great  dismay. 


CHAPTER   X 

A  TELEGRAM  AND  A  CALLER 

**  You  say/'  asked  Maltland,  as  they  surveyed  the 
canon,  **that  she  went  down  the  stream?  " 

"  She  said  she  was  goin'  down.  I  showed  her 
how  to  cut  across  the  mountains  an'  avoid  the  big 
bend,  I've  got  no  reason  to  suspicion  that  she 
didn't  go  w'ere  she  said." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Maidand,  "  it  is  barely 
possible  that  she  may  have  changed  her  mind  and 
gone  up  the  caiion." 

"  Yep,  the  female  mind  does  often  change  un- 
expected like,"  returned  the  other,  "  but  w'ether 
she  went  up  or  down,  the  only  place  for  us  to  look, 
I  take  it,  is  down,  for  if  she's  alive,  if  she  got  out 
of  the  canon  and  is  above  us,  nacherly  she'd  fol- 
low it  down  yere  an'  we'd  a  seed  her  by  this  time. 
If  she  didn't  git  out  of  the  canon,  why,  all  that's 
left  of  her  Is  bound  to  be  down  stream." 

Maltland  nodded,  he  understood. 

"We'd  better  go  down  then,"  continued 
Kirkby,  whose  reasoning  was  flawless  except  that  It 
made  no  allowance  for  the  human-divine  interpo- 
sition that  had  been  Enid  Maitland's  salvation. 

136 


A  Telegram  and  a  Caller         137 

"An'  if  we  don't  find  no  traces  of  her  down 
stream,  we  kin  come  back  here  an'  go  up." 

It  was  a  hard  desperate  journey  the  two  men 
took.  One  of  them  followed  the  stream  at  its 
level,  the  other  tramped  along  in  the  mountains 
high  above  the  high  water  mark  of  the  day  before. 
If  they  had  needed  any  evidence  of  the  power  of 
that  cloud  burst  and  storm,  they  found  it  in  the 
canon.  In  some  places  where  It  was  narrow  and 
rocky,  the  pass  had  been  fearfully  scoured;  at 
other  places  the  whole  aspect  of  it  was  changed. 
The  place  was  a  welter  of  up-rooted  trees,  logs 
jammed  together  in  fantastic  shapes;  It  was  as  if 
some  wanton  besom  of  destruction  had  swept  the 
narrow  rift. 

Ever  as  they  went  they  called  and  called. 
The  broken  obstructions  of  the  way  made  their 
progress  slow;  what  they  would  have  passed  over 
ordinarily  in  half  a  day,  they  had  not  traversed 
by  nightfall  and  they  had  seen  nothing.  They 
camped  that  night  far  down  the  caiion  and  in  the 
morning  with  hearts  growing  heavier  every  hour 
they  resumed  their  search. 

About  noon  of  the  second  day  they  came  to 
an  immense  log  jam  where  the  stream  now  broad- 
ened and  made  a  sudden  turn  before  It  plunged 
over  a  fall  of  perhaps  two  hundred  feet  into  the 
lake.     It  was  the  end  of  their  quest.     If  they  did 


!i38'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

not  find  her  there,  they  would  never  find  her  any- 
where, they  thought.  With  still  hearts  and  bated 
breath  they  climbed  out  over  the  log  jam  and 
scrutinized  it.  A  brownish  gray  patch  concealed 
beneath  the  great  pines  caught  their  eyes.  They 
made  their  way  to  it. 

"  It's  a  b'ar,  a  big  grizzly,"  exclaimed  Kirkby. 

The  huge  brute  was  battered  out  of  all  sem- 
blance of  life,  but  that  it  was  a  grizzly  bear  was 
clearly  evident.  Further  on  the  two  men  caught 
sight  suddenly  of  a  dash  of  blue.  Kirkby  stepped 
over  to  it,  lifted  it  In  his  hand  and  silently  ex- 
tended It  to  Maitland.  It  was  a  sweater,  a 
woman's  sweater.  They  recognized  It  at  once. 
The  old  man  shook  his  head.  Maitland  groaned 
aloud. 

"  See  yere,"  said  Kirkby,  pointing  to  the  rag- 
ged and  torn  garment  where  evidences  of  discol- 
oration still  remained,  "  looks  like  there'd  bin 
blood  on  It." 

"  Heavens!  "  cried  Maitland,  "  not  that  bear, 
I'd  rather  anything  than  that." 

"  W'atever  It  Is,  she's  gone,"  said  the  old  man 
with  solemn  finality. 

"  Her  body  may  be  In  these  logs  here  —  " 

"Or  In  the  lake,"  answered  Kirkby  gloomily; 
"  but    w'erever    she    is    we    can't    git    to    her 


now." 


A  Telegram  and  a  Caller         139 

"  We  must  come  back  with  dynamite  to  break 
up  this  jam  and  —  " 

"  Yep,"  nodded  the  old  man,  "  well  do  all  that, 
of  course,  but  now,  arter  we  search  this  jam  o' 
logs  I  guess  there's  nothin'  to  do  but  go  back,  an' 
the  quicker  we  git  back  to  the  settlement,  the 
quicker  we  can  git  back  here.  I  think  we  kin 
strike  acrost  the  mountains  an'  save  a  day  an'  a 
half.  There's  no  need  of  us  goln'  back  up  the 
canon  now,  I  take  It." 

"  No,"  answered  the  other.  "  The  quicker  the 
better,  as  you  say,  and  we  can  head  off  George 
and  the  others  that  way." 

They  searched  the  pile  eagerly,  prying  under 
It,  peering  Into  It,  upsetting  It,  so  far  as  they  could 
with  their  naked  hands,  but  with  little  result,  for 
they  found  nothing  else.  They  had  to  camp  an- 
other day  and  next  morning  they  hurried  straight 
over  the  mountains,  reaching  the  settlement  al- 
most as  soon  as  the  others.  Maltland  with  fu- 
rious energy  at  once  organized  a  relief  party. 
They  hurried  back  to  the  logs,  tore  the  jam  to 
pieces,  searched  It  carefully  and  found  nothing. 
To  drag  the  lake  was  Impossible ;  It  was  hundreds 
of  feet  deep  and  while  they  worked  It  froze. 
The  weather  had  changed  some  days  before, 
heavy  snows  had  already  fallen,  they  had  to  get 
out  of  the  mountains  without  further  delay  or  else; 


'I40  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

be  frozen  up  to  die.  Then  and  not  till  then  did 
Maltland  give  up  hope.  He  had  refrained  from 
wiring  to  Philadelphia,  but  when  he  reached  a 
telegraph  line  some  ten  days  after  the  cloud  burst, 
he  sent  a  long  message  east,  breaking  to  his 
brother  the  awful  tidings. 

And  in  all  that  they  did  he  and  Kirkby,  two 
of  the  shrewdest  and  most  experienced  of  men, 
showed  with  singular  exactitude  how  easy  It  Is 
for  the  wisest  and  most  capable  of  men  to  make 
mistakes,  to  leave  the  plain  trail,  to  fail  to  deduce 
the  truth  from  the  facts  presented.  Yet  It  Is  dif- 
ficult to  point  to  a  fault  In  their  reasoning,  or  to 
find  anything  left  undone  In  the  search. 

Enid  had  started  down  the  caiion,  near  the  end 
of  It  they  had  discovered  one  of  her  garments 
which  they  could  not  conceive  any  reason  for  her 
taking  off.  It  was  near  the  battered  body  of  one 
of  the  biggest  grizzlies  that  either  man  had  ever 
seen,  It  held  evidence  of  blood  stains  upon  It  still, 
they  had  found  no  body,  but  they  were  as  pro- 
foundly sure  that  the  mangled  remains  of  the  poor 
girl  lay  within  the  depths  of  that  mountain  lake 
as  If  they  had  actually  seen  her  there.  The  logic 
was  all  flawless. 

It  so  happened  that  on  that  November  morn- 

'  ing,    when  the   telegram   was   approaching   him, 

Mr.  Stephen  Maltland  had  a  caller.     He  came 


A  Telegram  and  a  Caller         141 

at  an  unusually  early  hour.  Mr.  Stephen  Mait- 
land,  who  was  no  longer  an  early  riser,  had  in- 
deed just  finished  his  breakfast  when  the  card  of 
Mr.  James  Armstrong  of  Colorado  was  handed 
to  him. 

"  This,  I  suppose,"  he  thought  testily,  "  is  one 
of  the  results  of  Enid's  wanderings  into  that  God- 
forsaken land.  Did  you  ask  the  man  his  business, 
James?  "  he  said  aloud  to  the  footman. 

"  Yes,  sir;  he  said  he  wanted  to  see  you  on  im- 
portant business,  and  when  I  made  bold  to  ask 
him  what  business,  he  said  it  was  none  of  mine, 
and  for  me  to  take  the  message  to  you,  sir." 

"  Impudent,"  growled  Mr.  Maitland. 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  he  is  the  kind  of  a  gentleman  you 
don't  talk  back  to,  sir." 

"  Well,  you  go  back  and  tell  him  that  you  have 
given  me  his  card,  and  I  should  like  to  know  what 
he  wishes  to  see  me  about,  that  I  am  very  busy 
this  morning  and  unless  it  is  a  matter  of  Impor- 
tance —  you  understand?  " 

"Yes,   sir." 

"  I  suppose  now  I  shall  have  the  whole  west  un- 
loaded upon  me;  every  vagabond  friend  of  Rob- 
ert's and  people  who  meet  Enid,"  he  thought,  but 
his  reveries  were  shortly  interrupted  by  the  return 
of  the  man. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  began  James  hesitatingly. 


142  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

as  he  re-entered  the  room,  "  he  says  his  business  is 
about  the  young  lady,  sir." 

"  Confound  his  impudence !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Maitland,  more  and  more  annoyed  at  what  he 
was  pleased  to  characterize  mentally  as  western 
assurance.     "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

''  In  the  hall,  sir." 

"  Show  him  into  the  library  and  say  I  shall  be 
down  in  a  moment." 

"  Very  good,  sir." 

It  was  a  decidedly  wrathful  individual  who  con- 
fronted Stephen  Maitland  a  few  moments  after- 
wards in  the  library,  for  Armstrong  was  not 
accustomed  to  such  cavalier  treatment,  and  had 
Maitland  been  other  than  Enid's  father  he  would 
have  given  more  outward  expression  of  his  indig- 
nation over  the  discourtesy  in  his  reception. 

"  Mr.  James  Armstrong,  I  believe,"  began  Mr. 
Maitland,  looking  at  the  card  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Er  —  from  Colorado?  " 

"  And  proud  of  it." 

"  Ah,  I  dare  say.  I  believe  you  wished  to  see 
me  about  —  " 

"  Your  daughter,  sir." 

"  And  in  what  way  are  you  concerned  about 
her,  sir?  " 

"  I  wish  to  make  her  my  wife." 


A  Telegram  and  a  Caller         143 

"  What ! "  exclaimed  the  older  man  in  a 
voice  equally  divided  between  horror  and  aston- 
ishment. "  How  dare  you,  sir?  You  amaze  me 
beyond  measure  with  your  infernal  Impudence." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Maltland,"  interposed  Arm- 
strong quickly  and  with  gi;eat  spirit  and  determi- 
nation, "  but  Vv^here  I  come  from  we  don't  allow 
anybody  to  talk  to  us  In  this  way.  You  are 
Enid's  father  and  a  much  older  man  than  I,  but 
I  can't  permit  you  to  —  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  astounded  Maitland,  drawing 
himself  up  at  this  bold  flouting,  "  you  may  be 
a  very  worthy  young  man,  I  have  no  doubt  of    ' 
it,  but  it  is   out  of  the  question.     My   daugh- 
ter—" 

Again  a  less  excited  hearer  might  have  noticed 
the  emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

"  Why,  she  is  half  way  engaged  to  me  now," 
interrupted  the  younger  man  with  a  certain  con- 
temptuous amusement  In  his  voice.  "  Look  here, 
Mr.  Maitland,  I've  knocked  around  the  world  a 
good  deal,  I  know  what's  what,  I  know  all  about 
you  Eastern  people,  and  I  don't  fancy  you  any 
more  than  you  fancy  me.  Miss  Enid  is  quite 
unspoiled  yet  and  that  is  why  I  want  her.  I'm 
well  able  to  take  care  of  her  too;  I  don't  know 
what  you've  got  or  how  you  got  It,  but  I  can  come 
near  laying  down  dollar  for  dollar  with  you  and 


144  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

mine's  all  clean  money,  mines,  cattle,  lumber,  and 
It's  all  good  money.  I  made  It  myself.  I  left 
her  in  the  mountains  three  weeks  ago  with  her 
promise  that  she  would  think  very  seriously  of 
my  suit.  After  I  came  back  to  Denver  —  I  was 
called  east  —  I  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  come 
here  when  I'd  finished  my  business  and  have  It 
out  with  you.  Now  you  can  treat  me  like  a  dog 
If  you  want  to,  but  If  you  expect  to  keep  peace 
in  the  family  you'd  better  not,  for  I  tell  you 
plainly  whether  you  give  your  consent  or  not  I 
mean  to  win  her.  All  I  want  Is  her  consent,  and 
I've  pretty  nearly  got  that." 

Mr.  Stephen  Maltland  was  black  with  wrath 
at  this  clear,  unequivocal,  determined  statement 
of  the  case  from  Armstrong's  point  of  view. 

"  I  would  rather  see  her  dead,"  he  exclaimed 
with  angry  stubbornness,  "  than  married  to  a  man 
like  you.  How  dare  you  force  yourself  Into 
my  house  and  Insult  me  In  this  way?  Were  I 
not  so  old  a  man  I  would  show  you,  I  would  give 
you  a  taste  of  your  own  manner." 

The  old  man's  white  mustache  fairly  quivered 
with  what  he  believed  to  be  righteous  indignation. 
He  stepped  over  to  the  other  and  looked  hard  at 
him,  his  eyes  blazing,  his  ruddy  cheeks  redder 
than  ever.  The  two  men  confronted  each  other 
unblenchingly  for  a  moment,  then  Mr.  Maltland 


A  Telegram  And  a  Caller         145 

touched  a  bell  button  in  the  wall  by  his  side.    In- 
stantly the  footman  made  his  appearance. 

"  James,"  said  the  old  man,  his  voice  shaking 
and  his  knees  trembling  with  passion,  which  he 
did  not  quite  succeed  in  controlling  despite  a  des- 
perate effort,  "show  this  —  er  —  gentleman  the 
door.  Good  morning,  sir,  our  first  and  last  in- 
terview is  over." 

He  bowed  with  ceremonious  politeness  as  he 
spoke,  becoming  more  and  more  composed  as  he 
felt  himself  mastering  the  situation.  And  Arm- 
strong, to  do  him  justice,  knew  a  gentleman  when 
he  saw  him,  and  secretly  admired  the  older  man 
and  began  to  feel  a  touch  of  shame  at  his  own 
rude  way  of  putting  things. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  footman,  breaking 
the  awkward  silence,  "  but  here  is  a  telegram  that 
has  just  come,  sir." 

There  was  nothing  for  Armstrong  to  do  or  say. 
Indeed,  having  expressed  himself  so  unrestrain- 
edly to  his  rapidly  increasing  regret,  as  the  old 
man  took  the  telegram  he  turned  away  in  consid-  ^ 
erable  discomfiture,  James  bowing  before  him ' 
at  the  door  opening  into  the  hall  and  following 
him  as  he  slowly  passed  out.  Mr.  Stephen  Mait- 
land  mechanically  and  with  great  deliberation 
and  with  no  premonition  of  evil  tidings,  tore  open 
the  yellow  envelope  and  glanced  at  the  dispatch. 


146  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Neither  the  visitor  nor  the  footman  had  got  out 
of  sight  or  hearing  when  they  heard  the  old  man 
groan  and  fall  back  helplessly  into  a  chair.  Both 
men  turned  and  ran  back  to  the  door,  for  there 
was  that  in  the  exclamation  which  gave  rise  to 
instant  apprehension.  Stephen  Maltland  now  as 
white  as  death  sat  collapsed  in  the  chair  gasping 
for  breath,  his  hand  on  his  heart.  The  telegram 
lay  open  on  the  floor.  Armstrong  recognized  the 
seriousness  of  the  situation,  and  In  three  steps  was 
by  the  other's  side. 

"What  Is  It?"  he  asked  eagerly,  his  Hatred 
and  resentment  vanished  at  the  sight  of  the  old 
man's  ghastly,  stricken  countenance. 

**EnId!"  gasped  her  father.  "I  said  I 
would  rather  see  her  —  dead,  but  — It  is  not  true 

James  Armstrong  was  a  man  of  prompt  de- 
cision. Without  a  moment's  hesitation  he  picked 
up  the  telegram;  It  was  full  and  explicit,  thus  It 
read: 

"We  were  encamped  last  weeS  in  the  mountains. 
•Enid  went  down  the  canon  for  a  day's  fishing  alone. 
A  sudden  cloud  burst  filled  the  canon,  washed  away  the 
camp.  Enid  undoubtedly  got  caught  in  the  torrent  and 
was  drowned.  We  have  found  some  of  her  clothing  but 
not  her  body.  Have  searched  every  foot  of  the  canon. 
Think  body  has  got  Into  the  lake  now  frozen.     Snow  fall- 


A  Telegram  and  a  Caller        147, 

ing,  mountains  impassable,  will  search  for  her  in  the  spring 
when  the  winter  breaks.  I  am  following  this  telegram 
in  person  by  first  train.  Would  rather  have  died  a 
thousand  deaths  than  had  this  happen.      God  help  us." 

"Robert  Maitland." 

Armstrong  read  it,  stared  at  it  a  moment 
frowning  heavily,  passed  It  over  to  the  footman 
and  turned  to  the  stricken  father. 

"  Old  man,  I  loved  her,"  he  said  simply.  "  I 
love  her  still,  I  believe  that  she  loves  me.  They 
haven't  found  her  body,  clothes  mean  nothing,  I'll 
find  her,  I'll  search  the  mountains  until  I  do. 
Don't  give  way,  something  tells  me  that  she's 
alive,  and  I'll  find  her." 

"  If  you  do,"  said  the  broken  old  man,  crushed 
by  the  swift  and  awful  response  to  his  thoughtless 
exclamation,  "  and  she  loves  you,  you  shall  have 
her  for  your  wife." 

"  It  doesn't  need  that  to  make  me  find  her," 
answered  Armstrong  grimly.  "  She  Is  a  woman, 
lost  in  the  mountains  in  the  winter,  alone.  They 
shouldn't  have  given  up  the  search;  I'll  find  her 
as  there  Is  a  God  above  me  whether  she's  for  me 
or  not." 

A  good  deal  of  a  man  this  James  Armstrong  of 
Colorado,  In  spite  of  many  things  in  his  past  of 
which  he  thought  so  little  that  he  lacked  the  grace 
to    be    ashamed    of    them.     Stephen    Maltland 


148  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

looked  at  him  with  a  certain  respect  and  a  grow- 
ing hope,  as  he  stood  there  In  the  library  stern, 
resolute,  strong. 
Perhaps  — 


CHAPTER     XI 

"  OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY  " 

Recognition — -  or  some  other  more  potent  in- 
stantaneous force? — brought  the  woman  to  a  sit- 
ting position.  The  man  drew  back  to  give  her 
freedom  of  action,  as  she  lifted  herself  on  her 
hands.  It  was  moments  before  complete  con- 
sciousness of  her  situation  came  to  her;  the 
surprise  was  yet  too  great.  She  saw  things  dimly 
through  a  whirl  of  driving  rain,  of  a  rushing 
mighty  wind,  of  a  seething  sea  of  water,  but  pres- 
ently it  was  all  plain  to  her  again.  She  had 
caught  no  fair  view  of  the  man  who  had  shot  the 
bear  as  he  splashed  through  the  creek  and  tramped 
across  the  rocks  and  trees  down  the  canon,  at 
least  she  had  not  seen  his  front  face,  but  she  rec- 
ognized him  immediately.  The  thought  tinged 
with  color  for  a  moment,  her  pallid  cheek. 

"  I  fell  Into  the  torrent,"  she  said  feebly,  put- 
ting her  hand  to  her  head  and  striving  by  speech 
to  put  aside  that  awful  remembrance. 

"  You  didn't  fall  in,"  was  the  answer.  "  It  was 
a  cloud  burst,  you  were  caught  in  it." 

"  I  didn't  know." 

149 


1150  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  Of  course  not,  how  should  you." 

"  And  how  came  I  here?  " 

"  I  was  lucky  enough  to  pull  you  out." 

"  Did  you  jump  Into  the  flood  for  me?  " 

The  man  nodded. 

"  That's  twice  you  Have  saved  my  life  this 
day,"  said  the  girl,  forcing  herself  woman-like  to 
the  topic  that  she  hated. 

"  It's  nothing,"  deprecated  the  other. 

"  It  may  be  nothing  to  you,  but  It  Is  a  great  deal 
to  me,"  was  the  answer.  "  And  now  what  Is  to 
be  done?" 

"  We  must  get  out  of  here  at  once,"  said  the 
man.  "  You  need  shelter,  food,  a  fire.  Can  you 
walk?" 

"  I  don't  Know." 

"  Let  me  help  you."  He  rose  to  his  feet, 
reached  down  to  her,  took  her  hands  in  the  strong 
grasp  of  his  own  and  raised  her  lightly  to  her 
feet  in  an  effortless  way  which  showed  his  great 
strength.  She  did  not  more  than  put  the  weight 
of  her  body  slightly  on  her  left  foot  when  a  spasm 
of  pain  shot  through  her,  she  swerved  and  would 
have  fallen  had  he  not  caught  her.  He  sat  her 
gently  on  the  rock. 

"  My  foot,"  she  said  piteously.  "  I  don't 
Know  what's  the  matter  with  It." 

Her  high  boots  were  tightly  laced  of  course, 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  151 

but  he  could  see  that  her  left  foot  had  been  badly 
mauled  or  sprained,  already  the  slender  ankle 
was  swelling  visibly.  He  examined  It  swiftly  a 
moment.  It  might  be  a  sprain,  It  might  be  the 
result  of  some  violent  thrust  against  the  rocks, 
some  whirling  tree  trunks  might  have  caught  and 
crushed  her  foot,  but  there  was  no  good  In  specu- 
lating as  to  causes;  the  present  patent  fact  was 
that  she  could  not  walk,  all  the  rest  was  at  that 
moment  unimportant.  This  unfortunate  accident 
made  him  the  more  anxious  to  get  her  to  a  place 
of  shelter  without  delay.  It  would  be  necessary 
to  take  off  her  boot  and  give  the  wounded  mem- 
ber proper  treatment.  For  the  present  the  tight 
shoe  acted  as  a  bandage,  which  was  well. 

When  the  man  had  withdrawn  himself  from 
the  world,  he  had  Inwardly  resolved  that  no  hu- 
man being  should  ever  Invade  his  domain  or  share 
his  solitude,  and  during  his  long  sojourn  in  the 
wilderness  his  determination  had  not  weakened. 
Now  his  consuming  desire  was  to  get  this  woman, 
whom  fortune  —  good  or  111 !  —  had  thrown  upon 
his  hands,  to  his  house  without  delay.  There 
was  nothing  he  could  do  for  her  out  there  In  the 
rain.  Every  drop  of  whiskey  was  gone;  they 
were  just  two  half-drowned,  sodden  bits  of  human- 
ity cast  up  on  that  rocky  shore,  and  one  was  a 
helpless  woman. 


!i52  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  Do  you  know  where  your  camp  is?  "  he  asked 
at  last. 

He  did  not  wish  to  take  her  to  her  own  camp, 
he  had  a  strange  Instinct  of  possession  In  her. 
In  some  way  he  felt  he  had  obtained  a  right  to 
deal  with  her  as  he  would;  he  had  saved  her  life 
twice,  once  by  chance,  the  other  as  the  result  of 
deliberate  and  heroic  endeavor,  and  yet  his  honor 
and  his  manhood  obliged  him  to  offer  to  take  her 
to  her  own  people  if  he  could.  Hence  the  ques- 
tion, the  answer  to  which  he  waited  so  eagerly. 

"  It's  down  the  caiion.  I  am  one  of  Mr.  Rob- 
ert Maitland's  party." 

The  man  nodded.  He  didn't  know  Robert 
Maitland  from  Adam,  and  he  cared  nothing 
about  him. 

"  How  far  down?  "  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know;  how  far  Is  it  from  here  to 
where  you  —  where  —  where  we  —  " 

"  About  a  mile,"  he  replied  quickly,  fully  under- 
standing her  reason  for  faltering. 

"  Then  I  think  I  must  have  come  at  least  iive 
miles  from  the  camp  this  morning." 

"  It  will  be  four  miles  away  then,"  said  the 
man. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"  I  couldn't  carry  you  that  far,"  he  murmured 
half  to  himself.    "  I  question  If  there  Is  any  camp 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  153 

left  there  anyway.  Where  was  it,  down  by  the 
water's  edge?  '* 

"  Yes." 

"  Every  vestige  will  have  been  swept  away  by 
that,  look  at  it,"  he  pointed  over  to  the  lake. 

"  What  must  we  do?  "  she  asked  instantly,  de- 
pending upon  his  greater  strength,  his  larger  ex- 
perience, his  masculine  force. 

"  I  shall  have  to  take  you  to  my  camp." 

"Is  It  far?" 

"  About  a  mile  or  a  mile  and  a  half  from 
here." 

"  I  can't  walk  that  far." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  You  wouldn't  be  willing 
to  stay  here  while  I  went  down  and  hunted  for 
your  camp  ?  " 

The  girl  clutched  at  him. 

"  I  couldn't  be  left  here  for  a  moment  alone," 
she  said  in  sudden  fever  of  alarm.  "  I  never  was 
afraid  before,  but  now  —  " 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  gently  patting  her  as  he 
would  a  child,  "  we'll  go  up  to  my  camp  and  then 
I  will  try  to  find  your  people  and  —  " 

"But  I  tell  you  I  can't  walk!" 

"  You  don't  have  to  walk,"  said  the  man. 

He  did  not  make  any  apology  for  his  next  ac- 
tion, he  just  stooped  down  and  disregarding  her 
faint  protests  and  objections,  picked  her  up  in  his 


154  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

^rms.  She  was  by  no  means  a  light  burden,  and 
he  did  not  run  away  with  her  as  the  heroes  of  ro- 
mances do.  But  he  was  a  man  far  beyond  the 
average  in  strength,  and  with  a  stout  heart  and  a 
resolute  courage  that  had  always  carried  him  suc- 
cessfully through  whatever  he  attempted,  and  he 
had  need  of  all  his  qualities,  physical  and  mental, 
before  he  finished  that  awful  journey. 

The  woman  struggled  a  little  at  first,  then 
finally  resigned  herself  to  the  situation;  indeed, 
she  thought  swiftly,  there  was  nothing  else  to  do; 
she  had  no  choice,  she  could  not  have  been  left 
alone  there  in  the  rocks  In  that  rain,  she  could  not 
walk.  He  was  doing  the  only  thing  possible. 
The  compulsion  of  the  inevitable  was  upon  them 
both. 

They  went  slowly.  The  man  often  stopped  for 
rest,  at  which  times  he  would  seat  her  carefully 
upon  some  prostrate  tree,  or  some  rounded  boul- 
der, until  he  was  ready  to  resume  his  task.  He 
did  not  bother  her  with  explanation,  discussion  or 
other  conversation,  for  which  she  was  most  thank- 
ful. Once  or  twice  during  the  slow  progress  she 
tried  to  walk,  but  the  slightest  pressure  on  her 
wounded  foot  nearly  caused  her  to  faint.  He 
made  no  complaint  about  his  burden  and  she 
found  It  after  all  pleasant  to  be  upheld  by  such 
powerful  arms;  she  was  so  sick,  so  tired,  so  worn 


"  Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away  "  155 

out,  and  there  was  such  assurance  of  strength  and 
safety  In  his  firm  hold  of  her. 

By  and  by,  In  the  last  stage  of  their  journey, 
her  head  dropped  on  his  shoulder  and  she  actually 
fell  into  an  uneasy  troubled  sleep.  He  did  not 
know  whether  she  slumbered  or  whether  she  had 
fainted  again.  He  did  not  dare  to  stop  to  find 
out,  his  strength  was  almost  spent;  In  this  last 
effort  the.  strain  upon  his  muscles  was  almost  as 
great  as  it  had  been  In  the  whirlpool.  For  the 
second  time  that  day  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his 
forehead,  his  legs  trembled  under  him.  How  he 
made  the  last  five  hundred  feet  up  the  steep  wall 
to  a  certain  broad  shelf  perhaps  an  acre  in  ex- 
tent where  he  had  built  his  hut  among  the  moun- 
tains, he  never  knew;  but  the  last  remnant  of  his 
force  was  spent  when  he  finally  opened  the  un- 
latched door  with  his  foot,  carried  her  Into  the  log 
hut  and  laid  her  upon  the  bed  or  bunk  built  against 
one  wall  of  the  cabin. 

Yet  the  way  he  put  her  down  was  characteris- 
tic of  the  man.  That  last  vestige  of  strength  had 
served  him  well.  He  did  not  drop  her  as  a  less 
thoughtful  and  less  determined  man  might  have 
done;  he  laid  her  there  as  gently  and  as  tenderly 
as  if  she  weighed  nothing,  and  as  if  he  had  car- 
ried her  nowhere.  So  quiet  and  easy  was  his 
handling  of  her  that  she  did  not  wake  up  at  once. 


156  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

So  soon  as  she  was  out  of  his  arms,  he  stood 
up  and  stared  at  her  in  great  alarm  which  soon 
gave  way  to  reassurance.  She  had  not  fainted; 
there  was  a  little  tinge  of  color  In  her  cheek  that 
had  rubbed  up  against  his  rough  wet  shoulder;  she 
was  asleep,  her  regular  breathing  told  him  that. 
Sleep  was  of  course  the  very  best  medicine 
for  her  and  yet  she  should  not  be  allowed  to 
sleep  until  she  had  got  rid  of  her  wet  clothing 
and  until  something  had  been  done  for  her 
wounded  foot.  It  was  indeed  an  embarrassing 
situation. 

He  surveyed  her  for  a  few  moments  wondering 
how  best  to  begin.  Then  realizing  the  necessity 
for  immediate  action,  he  bent  over  and  woke  her 
up.  Again  she  stared  at  him  In  bewilderment 
until  he  spoke. 

"  This  Is  my  house,''  he  said,  "we  are  home." 

"  Home !  "  sobbed  the  girl. 

"  Under  shelter,  then,"  said  the  man.  "  You 
are  very  tired  and  very  sleepy,  but  there  is  some- 
thing to  be  done.  You  must  take  off  those  wet 
clothes  at  once,  you  must  have  something  to  eat, 
and  I  must  have  a  look  at  that  foot,  and  then  you 
can  have  your  sleep  out." 

The  girl  stared  at  him;  his  program,  if  a  radical 
one  under  the  circumstances,  was  nevertheless  a 
rational  one,  indeed  the  only  one.     How  was  it 


'Wait !     I  am  a  woman,  absolutely  alone,  entirely 
at  your  mercy" 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  157 

to  be  carried  out?  The  man  easily  divined  her 
thoughts. 

"  There  is  another  room  in  this  house,  a  store 
room,  I  cook  in  there,"  he  said.  "  I  am  going  in 
there  now  to  get  you  something  to  eat,  meanwhile 
you  must  undress  yourself  and  go  to  bed." 

He  went  to  a  rude  set  of  box-like  shelves 
draped  with  a  curtain,  apparently  his  own  handi- 
work, against  the  wall,  and  brought  from  It  a  long 
and  somewhat  shapeless  woolen  gown. 

"  You  can  wear  this  to  sleep  In,"  he  continued. 
"  First  of  all,  though,  I  am  going  to  have  a  look 
at  that  foot." 

He  bent  down  to  where  Her  wounded  foot  lay 
extended  on  the  bed. 

"Wait!  "  said  the  girl,  lifting  herself  on  her 
arm  and  as  she  did  so  he  lifted  his  head  and  an- 
swered her  direct  gaze  with  his  own.  "  I  am  a 
woman,  absolutely  alone,  entirely  at  your  mercy, 
you  are  stronger  than  I,  I  have  no  choice  but  to 
do  what  you  bid  me.  And  in  addition  to  the 
natural  weakness  of  my  sex  I  am  the  more  helpless 
from  this  foot.  What  do  you  Intend  to  do  with 
me?     How  do  you  mean  to  treat  me?" 

It  was  a  bold,  a  splendid  question  and  It  evoked 
the  answer  it  merited. 

"  As  God  is  my  judge,"  said  the  man  quietly, 
"  just  as  you  ought  to  be  treated,  as  I  would  want 


158  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

another  to  treat  my  mother,  or  my  sister,  or  my 
wife  —  "  she  noticed  how  curiously  his  lips  sud» 
denly  tightened  at  that  word  —  "if  I  had  one. 
I  never  harmed  a  woman  In  my  life,"  he  contin- 
ued more  earnestly,  "  only  one,  that  Is,"  he  cor- 
rected himself,  and  once  again  she  marked  that 
peculiar  contraction  of  the  lips.  "  And  I  could 
not  help  that,"  he  added. 

"  I  trust  you,"  said  the  girl  at  last  after  gazing 
at  him  long  and  hard  as  if  to  search  out  the  se- 
crets of  his  very  soul.  "  You  have  saved  my  life 
and  things  dearer  will  be  safe  with  you.  I  have 
to  trust  you." 

"  I  hope,"  came  the  quick  comment,  "  that  it 
IS  not  only  for  that.  I  don't  want  to  be  trusted 
upon  compulsion." 

"  You  must  have  fought  terribly  for  my  life  in 
the  flood,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  can  remember 
what  it  was  now,  and  you  carried  me  over  the 
rocks  and  the  mountains  without  faltering.  Only 
a  man  could  do  what  you  have  done.  I  trust 
you  anyway." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  man  briefly  as  he  bent 
over  the  injured  foot  again. 

The  boot  laced  up  the  front,  the  short  skirt 
left  all  plainly  visible.  With  deft  fingers  he  un- 
did the  sodden  knot  and  unlaced  It,  then  stood 
hesitatingly  for  a  moment. 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  159 

"  I  don't  like  to  cut  your  only  pair  of  shoes,'* 
he  said  as  he  made  a  slight  motion  to  draw  it  off, 
and  then  observing  the  spasm  of  pain,  he  stopped. 
"  Needs  must,"  he  continued,  taking  out  his  knife 
and  slitting  the  leather. 

He  did  it  very  carefully  so  as  not  to  ruin  the 
boot  beyond  repair,  and  finally  succeeded  in  get- 
ting it  off  without  giving  her  too  much  pain.  And 
she  was  not  so  tired  or  so  miserable  as  to  be  un- 
aware of  his  gentleness.  His  manner,  matter-of- 
fact,  business-like,  if  he  had  been  a  doctor  one 
would  have  called  it  professional,  distinctly  pleased 
her  in  this  trying  and  unusual  position.  Her 
stocking  was  stained  with  blood.  The  man  rose  to 
his  feet,  took  from  a  rude  home-made  chair  a 
light  Mexican  blanket  and  laid  it  considerately 
across  the  girl. 

"  Now  if  yau  can  manage  to  get  off  your  stock- 
ing, yourself,  I  will  see  what  can  be  done,"  he 
said  turning  away. 

It  v/as  the  work  of  a  'few  seconds  for  her  to 
comply  with  his  request.  Hanging  the  wet  stock- 
ing carefully  over  a  chair  back,  he  drew  back  the 
blanket  a  little  and  carefully  inspected  the  poor 
little  foot.  He  saw  at  once  that  it  was  not  an 
ordinary  sprained  ankle,  but  it  seemed  to  him 
that  her  foot  had  been  caught  between  two  toss- 
ing logs,  and  had  been  badly  bruised.     It  was 


i6o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

very  painful,  but  would  not  take  so  long  to  heal 
as  a  sprain.  The  little  foot,  normally  so  white, 
was  now  black  and  blue  and  the  skin  had  been 
roughly  torn  and  broken.  He  brought  a  basin 
of  cold  water  and  a  towel  and  washed  off  the 
blood,  the  girl  fighting  down  the  pain  and  success- 
fully stifling  any  outcry. 

*'  Now,"  he  said,  "  you  must  put  on  this  gown 
and  get  Into  bed.  By  the  time  you  are  ready  for 
it  I  will  have  some  broth  for  you  and  then  we  will 
bandage  that  foot.  I  shall  not  come  In  here  for 
some  time,  you  will  be  quite  alone  and  safe." 

He  turned  and  left  the  room,  shutting  the  door 
after  him  as  he  went  out.  For  a  second  time  that 
day  Enid  Maltland  undressed  herself  and  this 
time  nervously  and  In  great  haste.  She  was  al- 
most too  excited  and  apprehensive  to  recall  the 
painful  circumstances  attendant  upon  her  first  dis- 
robing. She  said  she  trusted  the  man  absolutely, 
yet  she  would  not  have  been  human  if  she  had 
not  looked  most  anxiously  toward  that  closed 
door.  He  made  plenty  of  noise  in  the  other 
room,  bustling  about  as  if  to  reassure  her. 

She  could  not  rest  the  weight  of  her  body  on 
her  left  foot  and  getting  rid  of  her  wet  clothes 
was  a  somewhat  slow  process  In  spite  of  her  hurry, 
made  more  so  by  her  extreme  nervousness.  Th* 
gown  he  gave  her  was  far  too  big  for  her,  but 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  i6i 

soft  and  warm  and  exquisitely  clean.  It  draped 
her  slight  figure  completely.  Leaving  her  sod- 
den garments  where  they  had  fallen,  for  she  was 
not  equal  to  anything  else,  she  wrapped  herself 
in  the  folds  of  the  big  gown  and  managed  to  get 
into  bed.  For  all  its  rude  appearance  it  was  a 
very  comfortable  sleeping  place,  there  were 
springs  and  a  good  mattress.  The  unbleached 
sheets  were  clean;  although  they  had  been  rough 
dried,  there  was  a  delicious  sense  of  comfort  and 
rest  in  her  position.  She  had  scarcely  composed 
herself  when  he  knocked  loudly  upon  her  door. 

"  May  I  come  in?  *'  he  asked. 

When  she  bade  him  enter  she  saw  he  had  in  his 
hand  a  saucepan  full  of  some  steaming  broth. 
She  wondered  how  he  had  made  it  in  such  a  hurry, 
but  after  he  poured  it  Into  a  granite  ware  cup  and 
offered  it  to  her,  she  took  it  without  question.  It 
was  thick,  warming  and  nourishing.  He  stood 
by  her  and  insisted  that  she  take  more  and  more. 
Finally  she  rebelled. 

"  Well,  perhaps  that  will  do  for  to-night,''  he 
said,  "  now  let's  have  a  look  at  your  foot." 

She  observed  that  he  had  laid  on  the  table  a 
long  roll  of  white  cloth;  she  could  not  know  that 
he  had  torn  up  one  of  his  sheets  to  make  ban- 
dages, but  so  It  was.  He  took  the  little  foot 
tenderly  in  his  hands. 


1 62    The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  I  am  going  to  hurt  you,"  he  said,  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  find  out  if  there  Is  anything  more  than  a 
bruise,  any  bones  broken." 

There  was  no  denying  that  he  did  pain  her  ex- 
quisitely. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said  as  she  cried  aloud. 
"  I  have  got  to  see  what's  the  matter,  I  arri  al- 
most through  now." 

"  Go  on,  I  can  bear  it,"  she  said  faintly.  **  I 
feel  so  much  better  anyway  now  that  I  am  dry 
and  warm." 

*'  So  far  as  I  can  determine,"  said  the  man  at 
last,  "It  Is  only  a  bad  ugly  bruise;  the  skin  is 
torn.  It  has  been  battered,  but  it  Is  neither  sprained 
nor  broken  and  I  don't  think  It  Is  going  to  be 
very  serious.  Now  I  am  going  to  bathe  It  In  the 
hottest  water  you  can  bear,  and  then  I  will  ban- 
dage It  and  let  you  go  to  sleep." 

He  went  out  and  came  bacK  with  a  kettle  of 
boiling  water,  with  which  he  laved  again  and 
again,  the  poor,  torn,  battered  little  member. 
Never  In  her  life  had  anything  been  so  grateful 
as  these  repeated  applications  of  hot  water. 
After  awhile  he  applied  a  healing  lotion  of  some 
kind,  then  he  took  his  long  roll  of  bandage  and 
wound  It  dexterously  around  her  foot,  not  draw- 
ing It  too  close  to  prevent  circulation,  but  just 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  163 

tight  enough  for  support,  then  as  he  finished  she 
drew  It  back  beneath  the  cover. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  there  Is  nothing  more  I  can 
do  for  you  to-night,  Is  there?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  to  sleep  now,  you  will  be 
perfectly  safe  here..  I  am  going  down  the  canon 
to  search  —  " 

"  No,"  said  the  girl  apprehensively.  "  I  dare 
not  be  left  alone  here;  besides  I  know  how  dan- 
gerous it  would  be  for  you  to  try  to  descend  the 
canon  In  this  rain.  You  have  risked  enough  for 
me,  you  must  wait  until  the  morning.  I  shall  feel 
better  then." 

"  But  think  of  the  anxiety  of  your  friends." 

"  I  can't  help  It,"  was  the  nervous  reply.  "  I 
'am  afraid  to  be  left  alone  here  at  night." 

Her  voice  trembled,  he  was  fearful  she  would 
have  a  nervous  breakdown. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  soothingly,  "  I  will  not 
leave  you  till  the  morning." 

"Where  will  you  stay?" 

"  I'll  make  a  shakedown  for  myself  In  the  store 
room,"  he  answered.  "  I  shall  be  right  within 
call  at  any  time." 

It  had  grown  dark  outside  by  this  time  and  the 
two  in  the  log  hut  could  barely  see  each  other. 


164  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  I  think  I  shall  light  the  fire,"  continued  the 
■man;  "  it  will  be  sort  of  company  for  you  and  it 
gets  cold  up  here  of  nights  at  this  season.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  this  rain  turned  into  snow. 
Besides,  it  will  dry  your  clothes  for  you." 

Then  he  went  over  to  the  fireplace,  struck  a 
match,  touched  it  to  the  kindling  under  the  huge 
logs  already  prepared,  and  in  a  moment  a  cheer- 
ful blaze  was  roaring  up  through  the  chimney. 
Then  he  picked  up  from  the  floor  where  she  had 
cast  them  in  a  heap,  her  bedraggled  garments. 
He  straightened  them  out  as  best  he  could,  hung 
them  over  the  backs  of  chairs  and  the  table  which 
he  drew  as  near  to  the  fire  as  was  safe.  Having 
completed  this  unwonted  task  he  turned  to  the 
woman  who  had  watched  him  curiously  and  ner- 
vously the  while. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  that  I  can  do  for 
you?" 

"  Nothing;  you  have  been  as  kind  and  as  gentle 
as  you  were  strong  and  brave." 

He  threw  his  hand  out  with  a  deprecating  ges- 
ture. 

"Are  you  quite  comfortable?" 

"  Yes." 

"And  your  foot?" 

"  Seems  very  much  better." 


"Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away"  165] 

"  Good  night  then,  I  will  call  you  in  the  morn- 
Ing." 

"  Good  night,"  said  the  girl  gratefully,  "  and 
God  bless  you  for  a  true  and  noble  man." 


CHAPTER   XII 

ON  THE  TWO  SIDES  OF  THE  DOOR 

The  cabin  contained  a  large  and  a  small  room. 
In  the  wall  between  them  there  was  a  doorway 
closed  by  an  ordinary  batten  door  with  a  wooden 
latch  and  no  lock.  Closed  it  served  to  hide  the 
occupant  of  one  room  from  the  view  of  the  other, 
otherwise  It  was  but  a  feeble  barrier.  Even 
had  It  possessed  a  lock,  a  vigorous  man  could 
have  burst  It  through  In  a  moment. 

These  thoughts  did  not  come  very  clearly  to 
Enid  Maltland.  Few  thoughts  of  any  kind  came 
to  her.  Where  she  lay  she  could  see  plainly  the 
dancing  light  of  the  glorious  fire.  She  was  warm ; 
the  deftly  wrapped  bandage,  the  healing  lotion 
upon  her  foot,  had  greatly  relieved  the  pain  in 
that  wounded  member.  The  bed  was  hard  but 
comfortable,  much  more  so  than  the  sleeping  bags 
/  to  which  of  late  she  had  been  accustomed. 

Few  women  had  gone  through  such  experiences 
mental  and  physical  as  had  befallen  her  within 
the  last  few  hours  and  lived  to  tell  the  story. 
Had  it  not  been  for  the  exhaustive  strains  of 
body  and  spirit  to  which  she  had  been  subjected, 

i66 


On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door     167 

her  mental  faculties  would  have  been  on  the  alert 
and  the  strangeness  of  her  unique  position  would 
have  made  her  so  nervous  that  she  could  not 
have  slept. 

For  the  time  being,  however,  the  physical  de- 
inands  upon  her  entity  were  paramount.  She  was 
dry,  she  was  warm,  she  was  fed,  she  was  free 
from  anxiety  and  she  was  absolutely  unutterably 
weary.  Her  thoughts  were  vague,  inchoate,  un- 
concentrated.  The  fire  wavered  before  her  eyes, 
she  closed  them  In  a  few  moments  and  did  not 
open  them. 

Without  a  thought,  without  a  care,  she  fell 
asleep.  Her  repose  was  complete,  not  a  dream 
even  disturbed  the  profound  slumber  Into  which 
she  sank.  Pretty  picture  she  made;  her  head 
thrown  backward,  her  golden  hair  roughly  dried 
and  quickly  plaited  in  long  braids,  one  of  which 
fell  along  the  pillow  while  the  other  curled  lov- 
ingly around  her  neck.  Her  face  in  the  natural 
light  would  have  looked  pallid  from  what  she  had 
gone  through,  but  the  fire  cast  red  glows  upon  it; 
the  fitful  light  flickered  across  her  countenance 
and  sometimes  the  color  wavered,  it  came  and 
went  as  if  In  consciousness;  and  sometimes  deep 
shadows  unrelieved  accentuated  the  paleness  born 
of  her  sufferings. 

There  is  no  light  that  plays  so  many  tricks  with 


1 68    The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  imagination,  or  that  so  stimulates  the  fancy 
as  the  light  of  an  open  fire.  In  its  sudden  out- 
bursts It  sometimes  seems  to  add  life  touches  to 
the  sleeping  and  the  dead.  Had  there  been  any 
eye  to  see  this  girl,  she  would  have  made  a  de- 
lightful picture  In  the  warm  glow  from  the  stone 
hearth.  There  were  no  eyes  to  look,  however, 
save  those  which  belonged  to  the  man  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door. 

On  the  hither  side  of  that  door  in  the  room 
where  the  fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  there  was 
rest  In  the  heart  of  the  woman,  on  the  farther 
side  where  the  fire  only  burned  In  the  heart  of 
the  man,  there  was  tumult.  Not  outward  and 
visible,  but  inward  and  spiritual,  and  yet  there 
was  no  lack  of  apparent  manifestation  of  the 
turmoil  in  the  man's  soul. 

Albeit  the  room  was  smaller  than  the  other,  it 
was  still  of  a  good  size.  He  walked  nervously 
up  and  down  from  one  end  to  the  other  as  cease- 
lessly as  a  wild  animal  Impatient  of  captivity  stalks 
the  narrow  limits  of  his  contracted  cage.  The 
even  tenor  of  his  life  had  suddenly  been  diverted. 
The  ordinary  sequence  of  his  days  had  been 
abruptly  changed.  The  privacy  of  five  years, 
which  he  had  hoped  and  dreamed  might  exist  as 
long  as  he,  had  been  rudely  broken  In  upon.  Hu- 
manity, which  he  had  avoided,  from  which  he 


On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door    169 

had  fled,  which  he  had  cast  away  forever,  had 
found  him.  Jbiit,  excessit,  evasit,  eriipit!  And, 
lo,  his  departures  were  all  in  vain !  The  world, 
with  all  Its  grandeur  and  Its  Insignificance,  with 
all  Its  powers  and  Its  weaknesses,  with  all  Its 
opportunities  and  Its  obligations,  with  all  Its 
joys  and  Its  sorrows,  had  knocked  at  his  door; 
and  that  the  knocking  hand  was  that  of  a 
woman,  but  added  to  his  perplexity  and  to  his 
dismay. 

He  had  cherished  a  dream  that  he  could  live  to 
himself  alone  with  but  a  memory  to  bear  him  com- 
pany, and  from  that  dream  he  had  been  thun- 
derously awakened.  Everything  was  changed. 
What  had  once  been  easy  had  now  become  im- 
possible. He  might  send  her  away,  but  though 
he  swore  her  to  secrecy  she  would  have  to  tell 
her  story  and  something  of  his;  the  world  would 
learn  some  of  It  and  seek  him  out  with  Insatiable 
curiosity  to  know  the  rest. 

Eyes  as  keen  as  his  would  presently  search  and 
scrutinize  the  mountains  where  he  had  roamed 
alone.  They  would  see  what  he  had  seen,  find 
what  he  had  found.  Mankind,  gold-lusting, 
would  swarm  and  hive  upon  the  hills  and  fight 
and  love  and  breed  and  die. 

He  would  of  course  move  on,  but  where? 
And  went  he  whithersoever  he  might,  he  would 


!i70  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

now  of  necessity  carry  with  him  another  memory 
^which  would  not  dwell  within  his  mind  in  har- 
mony with  the  memory  which  until  that  day  had 
been  paramount  there  alone. 

Slowly,  laboriously,  painfully,  he  had  built  his 
house  upon  the  sand,  and  the  winds  had  blown 
and  the  floods  had  come,  not  only  in  a  literal  but 
in  a  spiritual  significance,  and  in  one  day  that 
house  had  fallen.  He  stood  amid  the  wrecked 
remains  of  it  trying  to  recreate  it,  to  endow  once 
more  with  the  fitted  precision  of  the  past  the 
shapeless  broken  units  of  the  fabric  of  his  fond 
imagination. 

Whiles  he  resented  with  fierce,  savage,  passion- 
ate Intensity  the  interruption  of  this  woman  into 
his  life.  Whiles  he  throbbed  with  equal  inten- 
sity and  almost  as  much  passion  at  the  thought  of 
her. 

Have  you  ever  climbed  a  mountain  early  in  the 
morning  while  it  was  yet  dark  and  having  gained 
some  dominant  crest  stood  staring  at  the  far 
horizon,  the  empurpled  east,  while  the  "  dawn 
came  up  like  thunder?"  Or,  better  still,  have 
you  ever  stood  within  the  cold  dark  recesses  of 
some  deep  valley  of  river  or  pass  and  watched 
the  clear  light  spread  its  bars  athwart  the  heavens, 
like  nebulous  mighty  pinions,  along  the  light 
touched  crest  of  a  towering  range  until  all  of  a 


On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door     171 

sudden,  with  a  leap  almost  of  joy,  the  great  sun 
blazed  In  the  high  horizon? 

You  might  be  born  a  child  of  the  dark,  and 
light  might  sear  and  burn  your  eyeballs  accus- 
tomed to  cooler,  deeper  shades,  yet  you  could  no 
more  turn  away  from  this  glory,  though  you  might 
hate  it,  than  by  mere  effort  of  will  you  could  cease 
to  breathe  the  air.  The  shock  that  you  might 
feel,  the  sudden  surprise,  is  only  faintly  suggestive 
of  the  emotions  In  the  breast  of  this  man. 

Once  long  ago  the  gentlest  and  tenderest  of 
voices  called  frpm  the  dark  to  the  light,  the  blind. 
And  it  is  given  to  modern  science  and  to  modern 
skill  sometimes  to  emulate  that  godlike  achieve- 
ment. Perhaps  the  surprise,  the  amazement, 
the  bewilderment,  of  him  who  having  been  blind 
doth  now  see,  if  wc  can  imagine  It,  not  having 
been  In  the  case  ourselves,  will  be  a  better  guide 
to  the  understanding  of  this  man's  emotion  when 
this  woman  came  suddenly  Into  his  lonely  orbit. 
His  eyes  were  opened  although  he  would  not 
know  It.  He  fought  down  his  new  consciousness 
and  would  have  none  of  it.  Yet  it  was  there. 
He  loved  her! 

With  what  joy  did  Selkirk  welcome  the  savage 
sharer  of  his  solitude!  Suppose  she  had  been  a 
woman  of  his  own  race;  had  she  been  old,  with- 
ered, hideous,  he  must  have  loved  her  on  the  In- 


!i72  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

stant,  much  more  if  she  were  young  and  beautiful. 
The  thing  was  Inevitable.  Such  passions  are 
born.  God  forbid  that  we  should  deny  It.  Even 
in  the  busy  haunts  of  men  where  women  are  as 
plenty  as  blackberries,  to  use  Falstaff's  simile,  and 
where  a  man  may  sometimes  choose  between  a 
hundred,  or  a  thousand,  often  such  loves  are  born, 
forever. 

A  voice  in  the  night,  a  face  in  the  street,  a 
whispered  word,  the  touch  of  a  hand,  the  answer- 
ing throb  of  another  heart  —  and  behold !  two 
walk  together  where  before  each  walked  alone. 
Sometimes  the  man  or  the  woman  who  is  born 
again  of  love  knows  it  not,  declines  to  admit  it, 
refuses  to  recognize  it.  Some  birth  pain  must 
awake  the  consciousness  of  the  new  life. 

If  those  things  are  true  and  possible  under 
every  day  conditions  and  to  ordinary  men  and 
women,  how  much  more  to  this  solitary.  He  had 
seen  this  woman,  white  breasted  like  the  foam, 
rising  as  the  ancient  goddess  from  the  Paphlan 
Sea.  Over  that  recollection,  as  he  was  a  gentle- 
man and  a  Christian,  he  would  fain  draw  a  cur- 
tain, before  it  erect  a  wall.  He  must  not  dwell 
upon  that  fact,  he  would  not  linger  over  that  mo- 
ment.    Yet  he  could  not  forget  it. 

Then  he  had  seen  her  lying  prone,  yet  uncon- 
sciously   graceful    in    her    abandonment,    on   the 


On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door     173 

sward;  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white  face 
desperately  up-tossed  by  the  rolling  water;  he  had 
looked  Into  the  unfathomable  depths  of  her  eyes 
at  that  moment  when  she  had  awakened  In  his 
arms  after  such  a  struggle  as  had  taxed  his  man- 
hood and  almost  broken  his  heart;  he  had  carried 
her  unconsciously,  ghastly  white  with  her  pain- 
drawn  face,  stumbling  desperately  over  the  rocks 
in  the  beating  rain  to  this  his  home.  There  he 
had  held  that  poor,  bruised  slender  little  foot  in 
his  hand,  gently,  skillfully  treating  It,  when  he 
longed  to  press  his  lips  passionately  upon  It. 
Last  of  all  he  had  looked  Into  her  face  warmed 
with  the  red  light  of  the  fire,  searched  her  weary 
eyes  almost  like  blue  pools.  In  whose  depths  there 
yet  lurked  life  and  light,  while  her  golden  hair 
tinged  crimson  by  the  blaze  lay  on  the  white  pil- 
low —  and  he  loved  her.  God  pity  him,  fighting 
against  fact  and  admission  of  It,  yet  how  could 
he  help  it? 

He  had  loved  once  before  in  his  life  with  the 
fire  of  youth  and  spring,  but  it  was  not  like  this; 
he  did  not  recognize  this  new  passion  In  any  light 
from  the  past,  therefore  he  would  not  admit  it, 
hence  he  did  not  understand  it.  But  he  saw  and 
admitted  and  understood  enough  to  know  that  the 
past  was  no  longer  the  supreme  subject  in  his 
life,  that  the  present  rose  higher,  bulked  larger 


[174  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

and  hid  more  and  more  of  his  far-off  horizon. 

He  felt  like  a  knave  and  a  traitor,  as  if  he  had 
been  base,  disloyal,  false  to  his  Ideal,  recreant  to 
his  remembrance.  Was  he  indeed  a  true  man? 
Did  he  have  that  rugged  strength,  that  abiding 
faith,  that  eternal  consciousness,  that  lasting  affec- 
tion beside  which  the  rocky  paths  he  often  trod 
were  things  transient,  perishable,  evanescent? 
Was  he  a  weakling  that  he  fell  at  the  first  sight 
of  another  woman? 

He  stopped  his  ceaseless  pace  forward  and 
backward,  and  stopped  near  that  frail  and  futile 
door.  She  was  there  and  there  was  none  to  pre- 
vent.    His  hand  sought  the  latch. 

What  was  he  about  to  do?  God  forbid  that 
a  thought  he  could  not  freely  share  with  human- 
ity should  enter  his  brain  then.  He  held  all 
women  sacred,  and  so  he  had  ever  done,  and  this 
woman  in  her  loveliness.  In  her  helplessness,  in 
hef  weakness,  trebly  appealed  to  him.  But  he 
would  look  upon  her,  he  would  fain  see  If  she 
were  there,  If  It  were  all  not  a  dream,  the  creation 
of  his  disordered  Imagination. 

Men  had  gone  mad  in  hermitages  in  the  moun- 
tains, they  had  been  driven  Insane  in  lonely  oases 
in  vast  deserts;  and  they  had  peopled  their  soli- 
tudes with  men  and  women.  Was  this  same 
working  of  a   disordered  brain  too  much  turned 


On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door     175 

upon  Itself  and  with  too  tremendous  a  pressure 
upon  it  producing  an  Illusion?  Was  there  In 
truth  any  woman  there?  He  would  raise  the 
latch  and  open  the  door  and  look.  Once  more 
the  hand  went  stealthily  to  the  latch. 

The  woman  slept  quietly  on.  No  thin  barri- 
cade easily  unlocked  or  easily  broken  protected 
her.  Something  Intangible  yet  stronger  than  the 
thickest,  the  most  rigid,  bars  of  steel  guarded  her; 
something  unseen.  Indescribable,  but  so  unmis- 
takable when  It  throbs  In  the  breast  that  those 
who  depend  on  It  feel  that  their  dependence  is 
not  in  vain,  watched  over  her. 

Cherishing  no  evil  thought,  the  man  had  power 
to  gratify  his  desire  which  might  yet  bear  a  sin- 
ister construction  should  his  action  be  observed. 
It  was  her  privacy  he  was  invading ;  she  had  trusted 
to  him,  she  had  said  so,  to  his  honor  and  that 
stood  her  In  good  stead.  His  honor  1  Not  in  five 
years  had  he  heard  the  word  or  thought  the  thing, 
but  he  had  not  forgotten  It.  She  had  not  appealed 
to  an  unreal  thing.  Upon  a  rock  her  trust  was 
based.  His  hand  left  the  latch,  it  fell  gently,  he 
drew  back  and  turned  away  trembling,  a  con- 
queror who  mastered  himself.  He  was  awake  to 
the  truth  again. 

What  had  he  been  about  to  do  ?  Profane,  un- 
invited, the  sanctity  of  her  chamber,  violate  the 


176  The  Chalice  of  Courage: 

hospitality  of  his  own  house.  Even  with  a  proper 
motive  imperil  his  self-respect,  shatter  her  trust, 
endanger  that  honor  which  so  suddenly  became 
a  part  of  him  on  demand.  She  would  not  prob- 
ably know,  she  could  never  know  unless  she 
awoke.  What  of  that?  That  ancient  honor  of 
his  life  and  race  rose  like  a  mountain  whose 
scarped  face  cannot  be  scaled. 

He  fell  back  with  a  swift  turn,  a  feeling  almost 
womanly  —  and  more  men  perhaps  if  they  lived 
in  feminine  isolation,  as  self-centered  as  woman 
are  so  often  by  necessity,  would  be  as  feminine  as 
their  sisters  —  influenced  him,  overcame  him. 
His  hand  went  to  his  hunting  shirt;  nervously  he 
tore  it  open,  he  grasped  a  bright  object  that  hung 
against  his  breast;  as  he  did  so,  the  thought  came 
to  him  that  not  before  in  five  years  had  he  been 
for  a  moment  unconscious  of  the  pressure  of  that 
locket  over  his  heart,  but  now  that  this  other  had 
come,  he  had  to  seek  for  it  to  find  it. 

The  man  dragged  it  out,  held  it  in  his  hand 
and  opened  it.  He  held  it  so  tightly  that  it  almost 
gave  beneath  the  strong  grasp  of  his  strong  hand. 
From  a  near-by  box  he  drew  another  object  with 
his  other  hand;  he  took  the  two  to  the  light,  the 
soft  light  of  the  candle  upon  the  table,  and  stared 
from  one  to  the  other  with  eyes  brimming. 

Like  crystal  gazers  he  saw  other  things  than 


On  the  Two  Sides  of  the  Door     177 

those  presented  to  the  casual  vision,  he  heard 
other  sounds  than  the  beat  of  the  rain  upon  the 
roof,  the  roar  of  the  wind  down  the  canon.  A 
voice  that  he  had  sworn  he  would  never  forget, 
but  which,  God  forgive  him,  had  not  now  the 
clearness  that  It  might  have  had  yesterday,  whis- 
pered awful  words  to  him. 

Anon  he  looked  Into  another  face,  red  too,  but 
with  no  hue  from  the  hearth  or  leaping  flame, 
but  red  with  the  blood  of  ghastly  wounds.  He 
heard  again  that  report,  the  roar  louder  and  more 
terrible  than  any  peal  of  thunder  that  rived  the 
clouds  above  his  head  and  made  the  mountains 
quake  and  tremble.  He  was  conscious  again  of 
the  awful  stillness  of  death  that  supervened.  He 
dropped  on  his  knees,  burled  his  face  in  his  hands 
where  they  rested  on  picture  and  locket  on  the 
rude  table. 

Ah,  the  past  died  hard;  for  a  moment  He  was 
the  lover  of  old  —  remorse,  passionate  expiation, 
solitude  —  he  and  the  dead  together  —  the  world 
and  the  living  forgot!  He  would  not  be  false, 
he  would  be  true ;  there  was  no  power  in  any  feeble 
woman's  tender  hand  to  drive  him  off  his  course, 
to  shake  his  purpose,  to  make  him  a  new,  another 
man.     O,  Vanitas,  Vanitatum! 

On  the  other  side  of  the  door  the  unconscious 
woman  slept  quietly  on.     The  red  fire  light  died 


'1 7 8  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

away,  the  glowing  coals  sank  into  gray  ash. 
Within  the  smaller  room  the  cold  dawn  stealing 
through  the  unshaded  window  looked  upon  a  field 
of  battle  —  deaths,  wounds,  triumphs,  defeats  — ■: 
portrayed  upon  one  poor  human  face,  upturned  as 
sometimes  victors  and  vanqjulshed  alike  upturn 
stark  faces  from  the  field  to  the  God  above  who 
may  pity  but  who  has  not  Intervened. 

So  Jacob  may  have  looked  after  that  awful 
night  when  he  wrestled  until  the  day  broke  with 
the  angel  and  would  not  let  him  go  until  he  blessed 
him,  walking,  forever  after,  with  halting  step  as 
miemorial  but  with  his  blessing  earned.  Hath 
this  man  blessing  won  or  not?  And  must  he  pay 
for  it  if  he  hath  achieved  it? 

And  all  the  while  the  woman  slept  quietly  on 
upon  the  other  side  of  that  door. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE  LOG  HUT  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 

What  awakened  the  woman  she  did  not  know; 
in  all  probability  it  was  the  bright  sunlight  stream- 
ing through  the  narrow  window  before  her.  The 
cabin  was  so  placed  that  the  sun  did  not  strike 
fairly  into  the  room  until  it  was  some  hours  high, 
consequently  she  had  her  long  sleep  out  entirely 
undisturbed.  The  man  had  made  no  effort  what- 
ever to  awaken  her.  Whatever  tasks  he  had  per- 
formed since  daybreak  had  been  so  silently 
accomplished  that  she  had  not  been  aware  of 
them. 

So  soon  as  he  could  do  so,  he  had  left  the  cabin 
and  was  now  busily  engaged  in  his  daily  duties 
outside  the  cabin  and  beyond  earshot.  He  knew 
that  sleep  was  the  very  best  medicine  for  her  and 
It  was  best  that  she  should  not  be  disturbed  until 
in  her  own  good  time  she  awoke. 

The  clouds  had  emptied  themselves  during  the 
night  and  the  wind  had  at  last  died  away  toward 
morning  and  now  there  was  a  great  calm  abroad 
in  the  land.  The  sunlight  was  dazzling.  Out- 
side, where  the  untempered  rays  beat  full  upon 

179 


i8o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  crests  of  the  mountains,  it  was  doubtless 
warm,  but  within  the  cabin  it  was  chilly- — -the  fire 
had  long  since  burned  completely  away  and  he 
had  not  entered  the  room  to  replenish  It.  Yet 
Enid  Maitland  had  lain  snug  and  warm  under 
her  blankets.  She  presently  tested  her  wounded 
foot  by  moving  It  gently  and  discovered  agreeably 
that  it  was  much  less  painful  than  she  had  antici- 
pated. The  treatment  of  the  night  before  had 
been  very  successful. 

She  did  not  get  up  immediately,  but  the  cold- 
ness of  the  room  struck  her  so  soon  as  she  got  out 
of  bed.  Upon  her  first  awakening  she  was  hardly 
conscious  of  her  situation;  her  sleep  had  been  too 
long  and  too  heavy  and  her  awakening  too  grad- 
ual for  any  sudden  appreciation  of  the  new  condi- 
tion. It  was  not  until  she  had  stared  around  the 
walls  of  the  rude  cabin  for  some  time  that  she 
realized  where  she  was  and  what  had  happened. 
When  she  did  so  she  arose  at  once. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  call.  Never  in  her 
life  had  she  felt  such  death-like  stillness.  Even 
in  the  camp  almost  always  there  had  been  a  whis- 
per of  breeze  through  the  pine  trees,  or  the  chat- 
ter of  water  over  the  rocks.  But  here  there  were 
no  pine  trees  and  no  sound  of  rushing  brook  came 
to  her.  It  was  almost  painful.  She  was  keen  to 
dress  and  go  out  of  the  house.     She  stood  upon 


The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains     i8i 

the  rude  puncheon  floor  on  one  foot  scarcely  able 
yet  to  bear  even  the  lightest  pressure  upon  the 
other.  There  were  her  clothes  on  chairs  and 
tables  before  the  fireplace.  Such  had  been  the  heat 
thrown  out  by  that  huge  blaze  that  a  brief  Inspec-  / 
tlon  convinced  her  that  everything  was  thor-  • 
oughly  dry.  Dry  or  wet  she  must  needs  put  them 
on  since  they  were  all  she  had.  She  noticed  that 
there  were  no  locks  on  the  doors  and  she  realized 
that  the  only  protection  she  had  was  the  sense  of 
decency  and  the  honor  of  the  man.  That  she 
had  been  allowed  her  sleep  unmolested  made  her 
the  more  confident  on  that  account 

She  dressed  hastily,  although  It  was  the  worlc 
of  some  dIfHculty  in  view  of  her  wounded  foot 
and  of  the  stiff  condition  of  her  rough  dried  ap- 
parel. Presently  she  was  completely  clothed 
save  for  that  disabled  foot.  With  the  big  clumsy 
bandages  upon  It  she  could  not  draw  her  stocking 
over  It  and  even  If  she  succeeded  In  that  she  could 
in  no  way  make  shift  to  put  on  her  boot. 

The  situation  was  awkward,  the  predicament 
annoying;  she  was  wearing  bloomers  and  a  short 
skirt  for  her  mountain  climbing  and  she  did  not 
know  quite  what  to  do.  She  thought  of  tearing 
up  one  of  the  rough  unbleached  sheets  and  wrap- 
ping It  around  her  leg,  but  she  hesitated  as  to 
that.     It  was  very  trying.     Otherwise  she  would 


1 8  2'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

have  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the 
open  air,  now  she  felt  herself  virtually  a  pris- 
oner. 

She  had  been  thankful  that  no  one  had  disturbed 
her,  but  now  she  wished  for  the  man.  In  her 
helplessness  she  thought  of  his  resourcefulness 
with  eagerness.  The  man  however  did  not  ap- 
pear and  there  was  nothing  for  her  to  do  but  to 
wait  for  him.  Taking  one  of  the  blankets  from 
the  bed,  she  sat  down  and  drew  it  across  her  knees 
and  took  stock  of  the  room,. 

The  cabin  was  built  of  logs,  the  room  was 
large,  perhaps  twelve  by  twenty  feet,  with  one 
side  completely  taken  up  by  the  stone  fireplace ; 
there  were  two  windows,  one  on  either  side  of 
the  outer  door  which  opened  toward  the  south- 
west. The  walls  were  unplastered  save  in  the 
chinks  between  the  rough  hewn  logs  of  which  It 
was  made.  Over  the  fireplace  and  around  on 
one  side  ran  a  rude  shelf  covered  with  books. 
She  had  no  opportunity  to  examine  them,  although 
later  she  would  become  familiar  with  every  one 
of  them. 

Into  the  walls  on  the  other  side  were  driven 
wooden  pegs;  from  some  of  them  hung  a  pair  of 
snow  shoes,  a  heavy  Winchester  rifle,  fishing 
tackle  and  other  necessary  wilderness  parapher- 
nalia.    On   the   puncheon    floor   wolf   and   bear 


The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains     183; 

skins  were  spread.  In  one  corner  against  the 
wall  again  were  piled  several  splendid  pairs  of 
horns  from  the  mountain  sheep. 

The  furniture  consisted  of  the  single  bed  or 
berth  in  which  she  had  slept,  built  against  the 
wall  in  one  of  the  corners,  a  rude  table  on  which 
were  writing  materials  and  some  books.  A  row 
of  curtained  shelves,  evidently  made  of  small 
boxes  and  surmounted  by  a  mirror,  occupied  an- 
other space.  There  were  two  or  three  chairs, 
the  handiwork  of  the  owner,  comfortable  enough 
in  spite  of  their  rude  construction.  On  some 
other  pegs  hung  a  slicker  and  a  sou'wester,  a  fur 
overcoat,  a  fur  cap  and  other  rough  clothes;  a 
pair  of  heavy  boots  stood  by  the  fireplace.  On 
another  shelf  there  were  a  number  of  scientific 
instruments  the  nature  of  which  she  could  not  de- 
termine, although  she  could  see  that  they  were  all 
in  a  beautiful  state  of  preservation. 

There  was  plenty  of  rude  comfort  in  the  room 
which  was  excessively  mannish.  In  fact  there 
was  nothing  anywhere  which  in  any  way  spoke  of 
the  existence  of  woman  —  except  a  picture  In  a 
small  rough  wooden  frame  which  stood  on  the 
table  before  which  she  sat  down.  The  picture 
was  of  a  handsome  woman  —  naturally  Enid 
Maitland  saw  that  before  anything  else;  she 
would  not  have  been  a  woman  If  that  had  not  en- 


i84  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

gaged  her  attention  more  forcibly  than  any  other 
fact  In  the  room.  She  picked  It  up  and  studied 
It  long  and  earnestly,  quite  unconscious  of  the  rea- 
son for  her  Interest,  and  yet  a  certain  uneasy  feel- 
ing might  have  warned  her  of  what  was  toward 
in  her  bosom. 

This  young  woman  had  not  yet  had  time  to  get 
her  bearings,  she  had  not  been  able  to  realize  all 
the  circumstances  of  her  adventure;  so  soon  as 
she  did  so  she  would  know  that  Into  her  life  a 
man  had  come  and  whatever  the  course  of  that 
life  might  be  in  the  future,  he  would  never  again 
be  out  of  It. 

It  was  therefore  with  mingled  and  untranslat- 
able emotions  that  she  studied  this  picture.  She 
marked  with  a  certain  resentment  the  bold  beauty 
quite  apparent  despite  the  dim  fading  outlines  of 
a  photograph  never  very  good.  So  far  as  she 
could  discern. the  woman  was  dark  haired  and  dark 
eyed  —  her  direct  antithesis !  The  casual  viewer 
would  have  found  little  to  find  fault  with  in  the 
presentment,  but  Enid  Maltland's  eyes  were  sharp- 
ened by  —  what,  pray?  At  any  rate  she  decided 
that  the  woman  was  of  a  rather  coarse  fiber,  that 
in  things  finer  and  higher  she  would  be  found 
wanting.  She  was  such  a  woman,  so  the  girl  rea- 
soned acutely,  as  might  Inspire  a  passionate  affec- 
tion In  a  strong  hearted,  reckless  youth,  but  whose 


The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains     185 

charms  being  largely  physical  would  pall  in  longer 
and  more  Intimate  association;  a  dangerous  rival 
in  a  charge,  but  not  so  formidable  In  a  steady 
campaign. 

These  thoughts  were  the  result  of  long  and 
earnest  Inspection  and  it  was  with  some  reluctance 
that  the  girl  at  last  put  the  photograph  aside  and 
looked  toward  the  door.  She  was  hungry,  ra- 
venously so.  She  began  to  be  a  little  alarmed  and 
had  just  about  made  up  her  mind  to  rise  and  stum- 
ble out  as  she  was,  when  she  heard  steps  outside 
and  a  knock  on  the  door. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  asked  in  response. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  quick  answer. 

The  man  opened  the  door,  left  it  ajar  and  en- 
tered the  room. 

"Have  you  been  awake  long?"  he  began 
abruptly. 

"  Not  very." 

"  I  didn't  disturb  you  because  you  needed 
sleep  more  than  anything  else.  How  do  you 
feel?" 

"  Greatly  refreshed,  thank  you." 

"  And  hungry,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Very." 

"  I  will  soon  remedy  that.     Your  foot?  " 

"  It  seems  much  better,  but  I  —  " 


II 8 6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

The  girl  hesitated,  blushing.  *'  I  can't  get  my 
shoe  on  and  — '' 

"  Shall  I  have  another  look  at  it?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  believe  it  will  be  necessary.  If 
I  may  have  some  of  that  liniment,  or  whatever  it 
was  you  put  on  It,  and  more  of  that  bandage,  I 
think  I  can  attend  to  It  myself,  but  you  see  my 
stocking  and  my  boot  —  " 

The  man  nodded,  he  seemed  to  understand;  he 
went  to  his  cracker  box  chiffonier  and  drew  from 
it  a  long  coarse  woolen  stocking. 

*'  That  is  the  best  that  I  can  do  for  you,"  he 
said,  extending  it  toward  her  somewhat  diffidently. 

"  And  that  will  do  very  nicely,"  said  the  girl. 
"  It  will  cover  the  bandage  and  that  Is  the  main 
thing." 

The  man  laid  on  the  table  by  the  side  of  the 
stocking  another  strip  of  bandage  torn  from  the 
same  sheet;  as  he  did  so  he  noticed  the  picture. 
He  caught  It  up  quickly,  a  dark  flush  spreading 
over  his  face,  and  holding  it  In  his  hand  he  turned 
abruptly  away. 

"  I  will  go  and  cook  you  some  breakfast  while 
you  get  yourself  ready.  If  you  have  not  washed, 
you'll  find  a  bucket  of  water  and  a  basin  and 
towel  outside  the  door." 

He  went  through  the  inner  door  as  suddenly 
as  he  had  come  through  the  outer  one.     He  was 


J 


The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains     187: 

a  man  of  few  words  and  whatever  of  social  grace 
he  might  once  have  possessed  and  in  more  favor- 
able circumstances  exhibited,  was  not  noticeable 
now;  the  tenderness  with  which  he  had  cared  for 
her  the  night  before  had  also  vanished. 

His  bearing  had  been  cool  almost  harsh  and 
forbidding  and  his  manner  was  as  grim  as  his 
appearance.  The  conversation  had  been  a  brief 
one  and  her  opportunity  for  inspection  of  him  con- 
sequently limited,  yet  she  had  taken  him  in. 
She  saw  a  tall  splendid  man,  no  longer  very  young, 
perhaps,  but  in  the  prime  of  life  and  vigor.  His 
complexion  was  dark  and  burned  browner  by 
long  exposure  to  sun  and  wind,  winter  and  sum- 
mer. In  spite  of  the  brown  there  was  a  certain 
color,  a  hue  of  health  in  his  cheeks.  His  eyes 
were  hazel,  sometimes  brown,  sometimes  gray, 
and  sometimes  blue,  she  afterward  learned.  A 
short  thick  closely  cut  beard  and  mustache  cov- 
ered the  lower  part  of  his  face,  disguising  but  not 
hiding  the  squareness  of  his  jaw  and  the  firmness 
of  his  lips. 

He  had  worn  his  cap  when  he  entered  and 
when  he  took  it  off  she  noticed  that  his  dark  hair 
was  tinged  with  white.  He  was  dressed  In  a 
leather  hunting  suit,  somewhat  the  worse  for 
wear,  but  fitting  him  in  a  way  to  give  free  play  to 
all  his  muscles.     His  movements  were  swift,  en- 


!i88  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

ergetic  and  graceful;  she  did  not  wonder  that  he 
had  so  easily  hurled  the  bear  to  one  side  and  had 
managed  to  carry  her  —  no  light  weight,  indeed! 
■ —  over  what  she  dimly  recognized  must  have 
been  a  horrible  trail,  which  burdened  as  he  was 
would  have  been  Impossible  to  a  man  of  less 
splendid  vigor  than  he. 

The  cabin  was  low  ceiled  and  as  she  had  sat 
looking  up  at  him  he  had  towered  above  her  until 
he  seemed  to  fill  It.  Naturally  she  had  scruti- 
nized his  every  action,  as  she  had  hung  upon  his 
every  word.  His  swift  and  somewhat  startled 
movement,  his  frowning  as  he  had  seized  the  pic- 
ture on  which  she  had  gazed  with  such  Interest 
aroused  the  liveliest  surprise  and  curiosity  In  her 
heart. 

Who  was  this  woman?  Why  was  he  so  quick 
to  remove  the  picture  from  her  gaze  ?  Thoughts 
rushed  tumultuously  through  her  brain,  but  she 
realized  at  once  that  she  lacked  time  to  Indulge 
them.  She  could  hear  him  moving  about  In  the 
other  room,  she  threw  aside  the  blanket  with  which 
she  had  draped  herself,  changed  the  bandage  on 
her  foot,  drew  on  the  heavy  woolen  stocking  which 
of  course  was  miles  too  big  for  her,  but  which 
easily  took  In  her  foot  and  ankle  encumbered  as 
they  were  by  the  rude,  heavy  but  effective  wrap- 
ping.    Thereafter  she  hobbled  to  the  door  and 


The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains    189 

stood  for  a  moment  almost  aghast  at  the  splen- 
dor and  magnificence  before  her. 

He  had  built  his  cabin  on  a  level  shelf  of  roclc 
perhaps  fifty  by  a  hundred  feet  In  area.  It  was 
backed  up  against  an  overtowering  cliff,  other- 
wise the  rock  fell  away  in  every  direction.  She 
divined  that  the  descent  from  the  shelf  Into  the 
pocket  or  valley  spread  before  her  was  sheer,  ex- 
cept off  to  the  right  where  a  somewhat  gentler 
acclivity  of  huge  and  broken  boulders  gave  a 
practicable  ascent  —  a  sort  of  titantic  stairs  —  to 
the  place  perched  on  the  mountain  side.  The 
shelf  was  absolutely  bare  save  for  the  cabin  and 
a  few  huge  boulders.  There  were  a  few  sparse, 
stunted  trees  further  up  on  the  mountain  side 
above ;  a  few  hundred  feet  beyond  them,  however, 
came  the  timber  line,  after  which  there  was  noth- 
ing but  the  naked  rock. 

Below  several  hundred  feet  lay  a  clear  emerald 
pool,  whose  edges  were  bordered  by  pines  where 
it  was  not  dominated  by  high  cliffs.  Already  the 
lakelet  was  rimmed  with  Ice  on  the  shaded  side. 
i  This  enchanting  little  body  of  water  was  fed  by 
the  melting  snow  from  the  crest  and  peaks,  which 
in  the  clear  pure  sunshine  and  rarefied  air  of  the 
mountains  seemed  to  rise  and  confront  her  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  the  place  where  she  stood. 

On  one  side  of  the  lake  In  the  valley  or  pocket 


igo  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

beneath  there  was  a  little  grassy  clearing,  and 
there  this  dweller  in  the  wilderness  had  built  a 
rude  corral  for  the  burros.  On  a  rough  bench 
by  the  side  of  the  door  she  saw  the  primitive  con- 
veniences to  which  he  had  alluded.  The  water 
was  delightfully  soft  and  as  It  had  stood  exposed 
to  the  sun's  direct  rays  for  some  time,  although 
the  air  was  exceedingly  crisp  and  cold.  It  was  tem- 
pered sufficiently  to  be  merely  cool  and  agreeable. 
She  luxuriated  In  It  for  a  few  moments  and  while 
she  had  her  face  burled  In  the  towel,  rough,  coarse, 
but  clean,  she  heard  a  step.  She  looked  up  In 
time  to  see  the  man  lay  down  upon  the  bench  a 
small  mirror  and  a  clean  comb.  He  said  nothing 
as  he  did  so  and  she  had  no  opportunity  to  thank 
him  before  he  was  gone.  The  thoughtfulness  of 
the  act  affected  her  strangely  and  she  was  very 
glad' of  a  chance  to  unbraid  her  hair,  comb  It  out 
and  plait  it  again.  She  had  not  a  hair  pin  left  of 
course,  and  all  she  could  do  with  It  was  to  replalt 
It  and  let  It  hang  upon  her  shoulders;  her  coiffure 
would  have  looked  very  strange  to  civilization, 
but  out  there  in  the  mountains,  It  was  eminently 
appropriate. 

Without  noticing  details  the  man  felt  the  gen- 
eral effect  as  she  limped  back  Into  the  room  to- 
ward the  table.  Her  breakfast  was  ready  for 
her;  It  was  a  coarse  fare,  bacon,  a  baked  potato, 


The  Log  Hut  in  the  Mountains     191 

hard  tack  crisped  before  the  fire,  coffee  black  and 
strong,  with  sugar  but  no  cream.  The  dishes 
matched  the  fare,  too,  yet  she  noticed  that  the 
fork  was  of  silver  and  by  her  plate  there  was  a 
napkin,  rough  dried  but  of  fine  linen.  The  man 
had  just  set  the  brimming  smoking  coffee  pot  on 
the  table  when  she  appeared. 

**  I  am  sorry  I  have  no  cream,"  he  said,  and 
then  before  she  could  make  comment  or  reply,  he 
turned  and  walked  out  of  the  door,  his  purpose 
evidently  being  not  to  embarrass  her  by  his  pres- 
ence while  she  ate. 

Enid  Maitland  had  grown  to  relish  the  camp 
fare,  bringing  to  it  the  appetite  of  good  health 
and  exertion.  She  had  never  eaten  anything  that 
tasted  so  good  to  her  as  that  rude  meal  that  morn- 
ing, yet  she  would  have  enjoyed  it  better,  she 
thought,  if  he  had  only  shared  it  with  her.  If  she 
had  not  been  compelled  to  eat  It  alone.  She  has- 
tened her  meal  on  that  account,  determined  as 
soon  as  she  had  finished  her  breakfast  to  seek  the 
man  and  have  some  definite  understanding  with 
him. 

And  after  all  she  reflected  that  she  was  better 
alone  than  in  his  presence,  for  there  would  come 
stealing  Into  her  thoughts  the  distressing  episode 
of  the  morning  before,  try  as  she  would  to  put  it 
out  of  her  mind.     Well,  she  was  a  fairly  sensible 


,192  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

girl,  the  matter  was  passed,  it  could  not  be  helped 
now,  she  would  forget  It  as  much  as  was  possible. 
She  would  recur  to  it  with  mortification  later  on, 
but  the  present  was  so  full  of  grave  problems  that 
there  was  not  any  room  for  the  past. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

A  TOUR  OF  INSPECTION 

The  first  thing  necessary,  she  decided,  when  she 
had  satisfied  her  hunger  and  finished  her  meal, 
was  to  get  word  of  her  plight  and  her  resting 
place  to  her  uncle  and  the  men  of  the  party;  and 
the  next  thing  was  to  get  away,  where  she  would 
never  see  this  man  again  and  perhaps  be  able  to 
forget  what  had  transpired  —  yet  there  was  a 
strange  pang  of  pain  In  her  heart  at  that  thought  I 

No  man  on  earth  had  ever  so  stimulated  her 
curiosity  as  this  one.  Who  was  he?  Why  was 
he  there?  Who  was  the  woman  whose  picture 
he  had  so  quickly  taken  from  her  gaze?  Why 
had  so  splendid  a  man  burled  himself  alone  In 
that  wilderness?  These  reflections  were  pres- 
ently interrupted  by  the  reappearance  of  the  man 
himself. 

"Have  you  finished?"  he  asked  unceremo- 
niously, standing  In  the  doorway  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  and  It  was  very  good  Indeed." 

Dismissing  this  politeness  with  a  wave  of  his 
hand  but  taking  no  other  notice,  he  spoke  again. 

"If  you  win  tell  me  your  name -—  " 
193 


194  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  Maltland,  Enid  Maitland." 

"  Miss  Maltland?  " 

The  girl  nodded. 

**  And  where  you  came  from,  I  will  endeavor 
to  find  your  party  and  see  what  can  be  done  to  re- 
store you  to  them." 

"  We  were  camped  down  that  canon  at  a  place 
where  another  brook,  a  large  one,  flows  Into  It, 
several  miles  I  should  think  below  the  place 
where  —  " 

She  was  going  to  say  "  where  you  found  me," 
but  the  thought  of  the  way  In  which  he  had  found 
her  rushed  over  her  again;  and  this  time  with  his 
glance  directly  upon  her,  although  It  was  as  cold 
and  dispassionate  and  Indifferent  as  a  man's  look 
could  well  be,  the  recollection  of  the  meeting  to 
which  she  had  been  about  to  allude  rushed  over 
her  with  an  accompanying  wave  of  color  which 
heightened  her  beauty  as  it  covered  her  with 
shame. 

She  could  not  realize  that  beneath  his  mask  of 
indifference  so  deliberately  worn,  the  man  was  as 
agitated  as  she,  not  so  much  at  the  remembrance 
of  anything  that  had  transpired,  but  at  the  sight, 
the  splendid  picture,  of  the  woman  as  she  stood 
there  In  the  little  cabin  then.  It  seemed  to  him 
as  If  she  gathered  up  In  her  own  person  all  the 
radiance  and  light  and  beauty,  all  the  purity  and 


A  Tour  of  Inspection  195] 

freshness  and  splendor  of  the  morning,  to  shine 
and  dazzle  in  his  face.  As  she  hesitated  in  con- 
fusion, perhaps  comprehending  its  causes  he 
helped  out  her  lame  and  halting  sentence. 

"  I  know  the  caiion  well,**  he  said.  "  I  think 
I  know  the  place  to  which  you  refer;  is  it  just 
about  where  the  river  makes  an  enormous  bend 
upon  itself?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.  In  that  clearing  we  have  been 
camped  for  ten  days.  My  uncle  must  be  crazy 
with  anxiety  to  know  what  has  become  of  me 
and  —  ** 

The  man  interposed. 

"  I  will  go  there  directly,*'  he  said.  "  It  is  now 
half  after  ten.  That  place  is  about  seven  miles  or 
more  from  here  across  the  range,  fifteen  or  twenty 
by  the  river;  I  shall  be  back  by  nightfall.  The 
cabin  is  your  own.** 

He  turned  away  without  another  word. 

"  Wait,'*  said  the  woman,  "  I  am  afraid  to  stay 
here." 

She  had  been  fearless  enough  before  in  these 
(mountains  but  her  recent  experiences  had  some- 
how unsettled  her  nerves. 

"There  is  nothing  on  earth  to  hurt  you,  I 
think,"  returned  the  man.  "  There  isn't  a  hu- 
man being,  so  far  as  I  know,  in  these  mountains." 

"  Except  my  uncle's  party." 


196  The  Chalice  01:  Courage 

He  nodded. 

"But  there  might  be  another &^ Kear^'*  she 
added  desperately,  forcing  herself. 

*'  Not  likely,  and  they  wouldn't  come  here  if 
there  were  any.  That's  the  first  grizzly  I  have 
seen  in  years,"  he  went  on  unconcernedly,  stu- 
diously looking  away  from  her,  not  to  add  to  her 
confusion  at  the  remembrance  of  that  awful  epi- 
sode which  would  obtrude  itself  on  every  occasion. 
"  You  can  use  a  rifle  or  gun?  " 

She  nodded;  he  stepped  over  to  the  wall  and 
took  down  the  Winchester  which  he  handed 
her. 

"  This  one  is  ready  for  service,  and  you  will 
find  a  revolver  on  the  shelf.  There  is  only  one 
possible  way  of  access  to  this  cabin,  that's  down 
those  rock  stairs;  one  man,  one  woman,  a  child 
even,  with  these  weapons  could  hold  it  against  an 
army." 

"  Couldn't  I  go  with  you?  " 

*' On  that  foot?" 

Enid  pressed  her  wounded  foot  upon  the 
ground;  it  was  not  so  painful  when  resting,  but 
she  found  she  could  not  walk  a  step  on  it  without 
great  suffering. 

"  I  might  carry  you  part  of  the  way,"  said  the 
man.  "  I  carried  you  last  night,  but  It  would  be 
impossible,  all  of  it." 


A  Tour  of  Inspection  '197 

"  Promise  me  that  you  will  be  bacK  By  night- 
fall with  Uncle  Bob  and  —  " 

"  I  shall  be  back  by  nightfall,  but  I  can't  prom- 
ise that  I  will  bring  anybody  with  me." 

"You  mean?" 

"  You  saw  what  the  cloud  burst  nearly  did  for 
you,"  was  the  quick  answer.  "  If  they  did  not 
get  out  of  that  pocket  there  is  nothing  left  of 
them  now." 

"  But  they  must  have  escaped,"  persisted  the 
girl,  fighting  down  her  alarm  at  this  blunt  state- 
ment of  possible  peril.  "  Besides,  Uncle  Robert 
and  most  of  the  rest  were  climbing  one  of  the 
peaks  and  —  " 

"  They  will  be  all  right  then,  but  if  I  am  to 
find  the  place  and  tell  them  your  story,  I  must  go 


now." 


He  turned  and  without  another  word  or  a 
backward  glance  scrambled  down  the  hill.  The 
girl  limped  to  the  brink  of  the  cliff  over  which  he 
had  plunged  and  stared  after  him.  She  watched 
him  as  long  as  she  could  see  him  until  he  was  lost 
among  the  trees.  If  she  had  anybody  else  to  de- 
pend upon  she  would  certainly  have  felt  differ- 
ently toward  him.  When  Uncle  Robert  and  her 
Aunt  and  the  children  and  old  Kirkby  and  the  rest 
surrounded  her  again  she  could  hate  that  man  in 
spite  of  all  he  had  done  for  her,  but  now,  as  she 


198  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

stared  after  him  determinedly  making  his  way 
down  the  mountain  and  through  the  trees,  It  was 
with  difficulty  she  could  restrain  herself  from  call- 
ing him  back. 

The  silence  was  most  oppressive,  the  loneliness 
was  frightful ;  she  had  been  alone  before  in  these 
mountains,  but  from  choice;  now  the  fact  that 
there  was  no  escape  from  them  made  the  sensa- 
tion a  very  different  one. 

She  sat  down  and  brooded  over  her  situation 
until  she  felt  that  If  she  did  not  do  something  and 
in  some  way  divert  her  thoughts  she  would  break 
down  again.  He  had  said  that  the  cabin  and  its 
contents  were  hers.  She  resolved  to  inspect  them 
more  closely.  She  hobbled  back  into  the  great 
room  and  looked  about  her  again.  There  was 
nothing  that  demanded  careful  scrutiny;  she 
wasn't  quite  sure  whether  she  was  within  the  pro- 
prieties or  not,  but  she  seized  the  oldest  and  most 
worn  of  the  volumes  on  the  shelf.  It  was  a  text 
book  on  mining  and  metallurgy  she  observed,  and 
opening  it  at  the  fly  leaf,  across  the  page  she  saw 
written  in  a  firm  vigorous  masculine  hand  a  name, 
*'  William  Berkeley  Newbold,"  and  beneath  these 
words,  **  Thayer  Hall,  Harvard,"  and  a  date 
some  seven  years  back. 

The  owner  of  that  book,  whetfier  the  present 
possessor  or  not,  had  been  a  college  man.     Say 


A  Tour  of  Inspection  199 

that  he  had  graduated  at  twenty-one  or  twenty- 
two,  he  would  be  twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine 
years  old  now,  but  if  so,  why  that  white  hair? 
Perhaps  though  the  book  did  not  belong  to  the 
man  of  the  cabin. 

She  turned  to  other  books  on  the  shelf.  Many 
of  them  were  technical  books  which  she  had  suffi- 
cient general  culture  to  realize  could  be  only 
available  to  a  man  highly  educated  and  a  special 
student  of  mines  and  mining  —  a  mining  engineer, 
she  decided,  with  a  glance  at  those  instruments 
and  appliances  of  a  scientific  character  plainly, 
but  of  whose  actual  use  she  was  ignorant. 

A  rapid  inspection  of  the  other  books  confirmed 
her  in  the  conclusion  that  the  man  of  the  moun- 
tains was  indeed  the  owner  of  the  collection. 
There  were  a  few  well  worn  volumes  of  poetry 
and  essays.  A  Bible,  Shakespeare,  Marcus  Aure- 
lius,  Epictetus,  Tennyson,  Keats,  a  small  diction- 
ary, a  compendious  encyclopedia,  just  the  books, 
she  thought,  smiling  at  her  conceit,  that  a  man  of 
education  and  culture  would  want  to  have  upon  a 
desert  island  where  his  supply  of  literature  would 
be  limited. 

The  old  ones  were  autographed  as  the  first 
book  she  had  looked  in;  others,  newer  editions  to 
the  little  library  if  she  could  judge  by  their  condi 
tlon,  were  unsigned. 


aoo  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Into  the  corner  cupboard  and  the  drawers  of 
course  she  did  not  look.  There  was  nothing  else 
in  the  room  to  attract  her  attention,  save  some 
piles  of  manuscript  neatly  arranged  on  one  of  the 
shelves,  each  one  covered  with  a  square  of  board 
and  kept  in  place  by  pieces  of  glistening  quartz. 
There  were  four  of  these  piles  and  another  half 
the  size  of  the  first  four  on  the  table.  These  of 
course  she  did  not  examine,  further  than  to  note 
that  the  writing  was  in  the  same  bold  free  hand 
as  the  signature  in  the  books.  If  she  had  been 
an  expert  she  might  have  deduced  much  from 
the  writing;  as  it  was  she  fancied  it  v/as  strong, 
direct,  manly. 

Having  completed  her  inspection  of  this  room, 
she  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the  other;  it 
was  smaller  and  less  inviting.  It  had  only  one 
window  and  a  door  opening  outside.  There  was  a 
cook  stove  here  and  shelves  with  cooking  utensils 
and  granite  ware,  and  more  rude  box  receptacles 
on  the  walls  which  were  filled  with  a  bountiful 
and  well  selected  store  of  canned  goods  and  pro- 
visions of  various  kinds.  This  was  evidently  the 
kitchen,  supply  room,  china  closet.  She  saw  no 
sign  of  a  bed  in  it  and  wondered  where  and  how 
the  man  had  spent  the  night. 

By  rights  her  mind  should  have  been' filled  with 
her  uncle  and  his  party  and  in  their  alarm  she 


A  Tour  of  Inspection  201 

should  have  shared,  but  she  was  so  extremely 
comfortable,  except  for  her  foot,  which  did  not 
greatly  trouble  her  so  long  as  she  kept  it  quiet, 
that  she  felt  a  certain  degree  of  contentment  not 
to  say  happiness.  The  Adventure  was  so  ro- 
mantic and  thrilling  —  save  for  those  awful  mo- 
ments In  the  pool  —  especially  to  the  soul  of  a 
conventional  woman  who  had  been  brought  up 
in  the  most  humdrum  and  stereotyped  fashion  of 
the  earth's  ways,  and  with  never  an  opportunity 
for  the  development  of  the  spirit  of  romance 
which  all  of  us  exhibit  some  time  in  our  life 
and  which  thank  God  some  of  us  never  lose,  that 
she  found  herself  reveling  in  it. 

She  lost  herself  in  pleasing  imaginations  of  the 
tales  of  her  adventures  that  she  could  tell  when 
she  got  back  to  her  uncle  and  when  she  got  fur- 
ther back  to  staid  old  Philadelphia.  How 
shocked  everybody  would  be  with  it  all  there! 
Of  course  she  resolved  that  she  would  never  men- 
tion one  episode  of  that  terrible  day,  and  she  had 
somehow  absolute  confidence  that  this  man,  in 
spite  of  his  grim,  gruff  taciturnity,  who  had  shown 
himself  so  exceedingly  considerate  of  her  feelings 
would  never  mention  it  either. 

She  had  so  much  food  for  thought,  that  not 
even  in  the  late  afternoon  of  the  long  day,  could 
she  force  her  mind  to  the  printed  pages  of  the 


202!  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

book  she  had  taken  at  random  from  the  shelf 
which  lay  open  before  her,  where  she  sat  in  the 
sun,  her  head  covered  by  an  old  "  Stetson  "  that 
she  had  ventured  to  appropriate.  She  had 
dragged  a  bear  skin  out  on  the  rocks  In  the  sun 
and  sat  curled  up  on  It  half  reclining  against  a 
boulder  watching  the  trail,  the  Winchester  by  her 
side.  She  had  eaten  so  late  a  breakfast  that  she 
had  made  a  rather  frugal  lunch  out  of  whatever 
had  taken  her  fancy  In  the  store  room,  and  she 
was  waiting  most  anxiously  now  for  the  return 
of  the  man. 

The  season  was  late  and  the  sun  sank  behind 
the  peaks  quite  early  In  the  afternoon,  and  it 
grew  dark  and  chill  long  before  the  shadows  fell 
upon  the  dwellers  of  the  lowlands. 

Enid  drew  the  bear  skin  around  her  and  waited 
with  an  ever  growing  apprehension.  If  she 
should  be  compelled  to  spend  the  night  alone  in 
that  cabin,  she  felt  that  she  could  not  endure  It. 
She  was  never  so  glad  of  anything  In  her  life  as 
when  she  saw  him  suddenly  break  out  of  the 
woods  and  start  up  the  steep  trail,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment her  gladness  was  not  tempered  by  the  fact, 
which  she  was  presently  to  realize  with  great 
dismay,  that  as  he  had  gone,  so  he  now  returned, 
alone. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   CASTAWAYS   OF  THE   MOUNTAINS 

The  man  was  evidently  seeking  her,  for  so  soon 
as  he  caught  sight  of  her  he  broke  into  a  run  and 
came  bounding  up  the  steep  ascent  with  the  speed 
and  agility  of  a  chamois  or  a  mountain  sheep. 
As  he  approached  the  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and 
supported  herself  upon  the  boulder  against  which 
she  had  been  leaning,  at  the  same  time  extending 
her  hand  to  greet  him. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  her  voice  rising  nervously  as 
he  drew  near,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  back,  an- 
other hour  ojf  loneliness  and  I  believe  I  should 
have  gone  crazy.'* 

Now  whether  that  joy  in  his  return  was  for  him 
personally  or  for  him  abstractly,  he  could  not  tell ; 
whether  she  was  glad  that  he  had  come  back 
simply  because  he  was  a  human  being  who  would 
relieve  her  loneliness  or  whether  she  rejoiced  to 
see  him  individually,  was  a  matter  not  yet  to  be 
determined.  He  hoped  the  latter,  he  believed 
the  former.  At  any  rate  he  caught  and  held  her 
outstretched  hand  in  the  warm  clasp  of  both  his 
own.     Burning  words  of  greeting  rushed  to  his 

203 


204  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

lips  torrentlally,  what  he  said,  however,  was  quite 
commonplace ;  as  is  so  often  the  case,  thought  and 
outward  speech  did  not  correspond. 

"  It's  too  cold  for  you  out  here,  you  must  go 
into  the  house  at  once,''  he  declared  masterfully 
and  she  obeyed  with  unwonted  meekness. 

The  sun  had  set  and  the  night  air  had  grown 
suddenly  chill.  Still  holding  her  hand  they 
started  toward  the  cabin  a  few  rods  away.  Her 
wounded  foot  was  of  little  support  to  her  and  the 
excitement  had  unnerved  her;  in  spite  of  his  hand 
she  swayed;  without  a  thought  he  caught  her 
about  the  waist  and  half  lifted,  half  led  her  to 
the  door.  It  seemed  as  natural  as  it  was  In- 
evitable for  him  to  assist  her  in  this  way  and  in 
her  weakness  and  bewilderment  she  suffered  It 
without  comment  or  resistance.  Indeed  there 
was  such  strength  and  power  in  his  arm,  she  was 
so  secure  there,  that  she  liked  It.  As  for  him 
his  pulses  were  bounding  at  the  contact;  but  for 
that  matter  even  to  look  at  her  quickened  his 
heart  beat. 

Entering  the  main  room  he  led  her  gently  to 
one  of  the  chairs  near  the  table  and  immediately 
thereafter  lighted  the  fire  which  he  had  taken  the 
precaution  to  lay  before  his  departure.  It  had 
been  dark  in  the  cabin,  but  the  fire  soon  filled  it 
with  glorious  light.     She  watched  him  at  his  task 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  205 

and  as  he  rose  from  the  hearth  questioned  him. 

"  Now  tell  me,"  she  began,  "  you  found  —  '* 

"  First  your  supper,  and  then  the  story,"  he 
answered,  turning  toward  the  door  of  the  other 
room. 

"  No,"  pleaded  the  girl,  "  can't  you  see  that 
nothing  is  of  any  importance  to  me  but  the  story? 
Did  you  find  the  camp?  " 

"  I  found  the  place  where  it  had  been." 

"Where  it  had  been!" 

"  There  wasn't  a  single  vestige  of  it  left.  That 
whole  pocket,  I  knew  it  well,  had  been  swept 
clean  by  the  flood." 

"But  Kirkby,  and  Mrs.  Maitland  and  —  " 

"  They  weren't  there." 

"  Did  you  search  for  them?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  But  they  can't  have  been  drowned,"  she  ex- 
claimed piteously. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  began  reassuringly. 
"  Kirkby  is  a  veteran  of  these  mountains  and  —  " 

"  But  do  you  know  him?  "  queried  the  girl  in 
great  surprise. 

"  I  did  once,"  said  the  man,  flushing  darkly  at 
his  admission.  "  I  haven't  seen  him  for  five 
years." 

So  that  was  the  measure  of  his  isolation, 
thought  the  woman,  keen  for  the  slightest  evi- 


2o6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

dence  as  to  her  companion's  history,  of  which,  by 
the  way,  he  meant  to  tell  her  nothing. 

"Well?''  she  asked,  breaking  the  pause. 

"  Kirkby  would  certainly  see  the  cloud-burst 
coming  and  he  would  take  the  people  with  him 
in  the  camp  up  on  the  hogback  near  It.  It  Is  far 
above  the  flood  line,  they  would  be  quite  safe 
there." 

"  And  did  you  look  for  them  there?  " 

"  I  did.  The  trail  had  been  washed  out,  but  I 
scrambled  up  and  found  undisputed  evidence  that 
my  surmise  was  correct.  I  haven't  a  doubt  that 
all  who  were  in  the  camp  were  saved." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  said  the  girl,  greatly 
relieved  and  comforted  by  his  reassuring  words. 
**  And  my  uncle,  Mr.  Robert  Maitland,  and  the 
rest  on  ,the  mountain,  what  do  you  think  of 
them?" 

"  I  am  sure  that  they  must  have  escaped  too. 
I  don't  think  any  of  them  have  suffered  more 
than  a  thorough  drenching  In  the  downpour  and 
that*  they  are  all  safe  and  perhaps  on  their  way  to 
the  settlements  now." 

"  But  they  wouldn't  go  back  without  searching 
for  me,  would  they?  "  cried  the  girl. 

"  Certainly  not,  I  suppose  they  are  searching 
for  you  now." 

"Well  then  — " 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  207 

"  Walt,"  said  the  man.  "  You  started  down 
the  caiion,  you  told  everybody  that  you  were  going 
that  way.  They  naturally  searched  in  that  di- 
rection; they  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  that  you 
were  going  up  the  river." 

'*  No,"  admitted  Enid,  "  that  is  true.  I  did 
not  tell  anyone.  I  didn't  dream  of  going  up  the 
canon  when  I  started  out  in  the  morning;  it  was 
the  result  of  a  sudden  impulse." 

"  God  bless  that  — "  burst  out  the  man 
and  then  he  checked  himself,  flushing  again 
darkly. 

What  had  he  been  about  to  say?  The  ques- 
tion flashed  Into  his  own  mind  and  into  the 
woman's  mind  at  the  same  time  when  she  heard 
the  incompleted  sentence;  but  she,  too,  checked 
the  question  that  rose  to  her  lips. 

**  This  is  the  way  I  figure  it,"  continued  the 
man  hurriedly  to  cover  up  his  confusion.  "  They 
fancy  themselves  alone  in  these  mountains,  which 
save  for  me  they  are;  they  believe  you  to  have 
gone  down  the  canon.  Kirkby  with  Mrs.  Malt- 
land  and  the  others  waited  on  the  ridge  until  Mr. 
Maltland  and  his  party  joined  them.  They 
couldn't  have  saved  very  much  to  eat  or  wear 
from  the  camp,  they  were  miles  from  a  settle- 
ment, they  probably  divided  into  two  parties;  the 
larger  with  the  woman  and  children  started  for 


2o8  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

home,  the  second  went  down  the  canon  searching 
for  your  dead  body!  " 

"  And  had  It  not  been  for  you,"  cried  the  girl 
impulsively,  "  they  had  found  it." 

"  God  permitted  me  to  be  of  service  to  you," 
answered  the  man  simply.  "  I  can  follow  their 
speculations  exactly;  up  or  down,  they  believed 
you  to  have  been  In  the  canon  when  the  storm 
broke,  therefore  there  was  only  one  place  and  one 
direction  to  search  for  you." 

"And  that  was?" 

"  Down  the  caiion." 

"What  did  you  do  then?" 

"  I  went  down  the  caiion  myself.  I  think  I 
saw  evidences  that  someone  had  preceded  me, 
too." 

"  Did  you  overtake  them !  " 

"  Certainly  not;  they  traveled  as  rapidly  as  I, 
they  must  have  started  early  in  the  morning  and 
they  had  several  hours  the  advantage  of  me." 

"  But  they  must  have  stopped  somewhere  for 
the  night  and —  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  man.  "  If  I  had  had  only 
myself  to  consider,  I  should  have  pressed  on 
through  the  night  and  overtaken  them  when  they 
camped." 

"Only  yourself?" 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  209 

"  You  made  me  promise  to  return  here  by 
nightfall.  I  don't  know  whether  I  should  have 
obeyed  you  or  not.  I  kept  on  as  long  as  I  dared 
and  still  leave  myself  time  to  get  back  to  you  by 
dark." 

She  had  no  idea  of  the  desperate  speed  he  had 
made  to  reach  her  while  it  was  still  daylight. 

"  If  you  hadn't  come  when  you  did,  I  should 
have  died/'  cried  the  girl  impetuously.  "  You 
did  perfectly  right.  I  don't  think  I  am  a  coward, 
I  hope  not,  I  never  was  afraid  before,  but  —  " 

"  Don't  apologize  or  explain  to  me,  it's  not 
necessary;  I  understand  everything  you  feel.  It 
was  only  because  I  had  given  you  my  word  to  be 
back  by  sunset  that  I  left  off  following  their  trail. 
I  was  afraid  that  you  might  think  me  dead  or 
that  something  had  happened  and  —  " 

"  I  should,  I  did,"  admitted  the  girl.  **  It 
wasn't  so  bad  during  the  day  time,  but  when  the 
sun  went  down  and  you  did  not  come  I  began  to 
imagine  everything.  I  saw  myself  left  alone  here 
in  these  mountains,  helpless,  wounded,  without  a 
human  being  to  speak  to.     I  could  not  bear  it." 

"  But  I  have  been  here  alone  for  five  years," 
said  the  man  grimly. 

"  That's  different.  I  don't  know  why  you  have 
chosen  solitude,  but  I  —  " 


2IO  Xhe  Chalice  oi^  Courage 

"  You  are  a  woman/'  returned  the  other 
gently,  "  and  you  have  suffered,  that  accounts  for 
everything." 

*'  Thank  you,"  said  Enid  gratefully.  "  And  I 
am  so  glad  you  came  back  to  me." 

"  Back  to  you,"  reiterated  the  man  and  then  he 
stopped.  If  he  had  allowed  his  heart  to  speak  he 
would  have  said,  back  to  you  from  the  very  ends 
of  the  world  —  "  But  I  want  you  to  believe  that 
I  honestly  did  not  leave  the  trail  until  the  ulti- 
mate moment,"  he  added. 

"  I  do  believe  It,"  she  extended  her  hand  to 
him.  "  You  have  been  very  good  to  me,  I  trust 
you  absolutely." 

And  for  the  second  time  he  took  that  graceful, 
dainty,  aristocratic  hand  in  his  own  larger, 
stronger,  firmer  grasp.  His  face  flushed  again; 
under  other  circumstances  and  In  other  days  per- 
haps he  might  have  kissed  that  hand;  as  It  was  he 
only  held  it  for  a  moment  and  then  gently  released 
it. 

"  And  you  think  they  are  searching  for  me?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  know  It.  I  am  sure  of  what  I  myself  would 
do  for  one  I  love  —  I  loved  I  mean,  and  they  •— ^  " 

"  And  they  will  find  me?  " 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  afraid  they  will  be  convinced  that  you 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  211 

have  gone  down  with  the  flood.  Didn't  you  have 
ia  cap  or  —  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  a  sweater. 
[The  bear  you  shot  covered  the  sweater  with 
blood.     I  could  not  put  it  on  again/' 

As  she  spoke  she  flushed  a  glorious  crimson  at 
the  remembrance  of  that  meeting,  but  the  man 
was  looking  away  with  studied  care.  She  thanked 
him  in  her  heart  for  such  generous  and  kindly  con- 
sideration. 

"  They  will  have  gone  down  the  stream  with 
the  rest,  and  it's  just  possible  that  the  searchers 
may  find  them,  the  body  of  the  bear  too.  This 
river  ends  in  a  deep  mountain  lake  and  I  think 
It  is  going  to  snow,  it  will  be  frozen  hard  to- 
morrow." 

"  And  they  will  think  me  —  there  ?  " 

*'  I  am  afraid  so." 

"And  they  won't  come  up  here?  " 

"  It  is  scarcely  possible." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  the  woman  faintly  at  the 
dire  possibility  that  she  might  not  be  found. 

"  I  took  an  empty  bottle  with  me,"  said  the 
man,  breaking  the  silence,  "  in  which  I  had  en- 
closed a  paper  saying  that  you  were  here  and 
safe,  save  for  your  wounded  foot,  and  giving  di- 
rections how  to  reach  the  place.  I  built  a  cairn 
of  rocks  in  a  sheltered  nook  in  the  valley  where 


212  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

your  camp  had  been  pitched  and  left  the  tightly 
corked  bottle  wedged  on  top  of  it.  If  they  re- 
turn to  the  camp  they  can  scarcely  fail  to  see 
it.'» 

"  But  if  they  don't  go  back  there.'' 

"  Well,  it  was  just  a  chance." 

"And  if  they  don't  find  me?" 

"  You  will  have  to  stay  here  for  a  while ;  until 
your  foot  gets  well  enough  to  travel,"  returned 
the  man  evasively. 

"  But  winter  is  coming  on,  you  said  the  lake 
would  freeze  to-night,  and  if  it  snows?  " 

**  It  will  snow." 

The  woman  stared  at  him,  appalled. 

"  And  in  that  case  —  " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  was  the  slow  reply,  "  that  you 
will  have  to  stay  here  "  • —  he  hesitated  in  the  face 
of  her  white  still  face  —  "  all  winter  "  he  added 
desperately. 

"  Alone !  "  exclaimed  the  girl  faintly.  **  With 
you?" 

"  Miss  Maitland,"  said  the  man  resolutely,  "  I 
might  as  well  tell  you  the  truth.  I  can  make  my 
way  to  the  settlements  now  or  later,  but  it  will  be 
a  journey  of  perhaps  a  week.  There  will  be  no 
danger  to  me,  but  you  will  have  to  stay  here. 
You  could  not  go  with  me.  If  I  am  any  judge 
you  couldn't  possibly  use  your  foot  for  a  moun- 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  213 

tain  journey  for  at  least  three  weeks,  and  by  that 
time  we  shall  be  snowed  in  as  effectually  as  if 
we  were  within  the  Arctic  Circle.  But  if  you  will 
let  me  go  alone  to  the  settlement  I  can  bring  back 
your  uncle,  and  a  woman  to  keep  you  company, 
before  the  trails  are  impassable.  Or  enough  men 
to  make  it  practicable  to  take  you  through  the 
canons  and  down  the  trails  to  your  home  again. 
I  could  not  do  that  alone  even  if  you  were  well, 
in  the  depth  of  the  winter." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  stubbornly. 

"  A  week  alone  in  these  mountains  and  I  should 
be  mad,"  she  said  decisively.  "  It  isn't  to  be 
thought  of." 

"  It  must  be  thought  of,"  urged  the  man. 
"You  don't  understand.  It  is  either  that  or 
spend  the  winter  here  —  with  me." 

The  woman  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"And  what  have  I  to  fear  from  you?"  she 
asked. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  protested  the  other,  "  but 
the  world?" 

"  The  world,"  said  the  woman  reflectively. 
"  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  means  nothing  to 
me,  but  it  has  cause  enough  for  what  it  would 
fain  say  now."  She  came  to  her  decision 
swiftly.  "  There  is  no  help  for  it,"  she  contin- 
ued; "we  are  marooned  together."     She  smiled 


214  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

faintly  as  she  used  the  old  word  of  tropic  island 
and  southern  sea.  "  You  have  shown  me  that  you 
are  a  man  and  a  gentleman,  in  God  and  you  I  put 
my  trust.  When  my  foot  gets  well,  if  you  can 
teach  me  to  walk  on  snow  shoes  and  It  is  possible 
to  get  through  the  passes,  we  will  try  to  go  back; 
if  not,  we  must  wait.'' 

*'  The  decision  is  yours,"  said  the  man,  "  yet  I 
feel  that  I  ought  to  point  out  to  you  how  —^  " 

"  I  see  all  that  you  see,"  she  interrupted.  "  I 
know  what  is  in  your  mind.  It  is  entirely  clear  to 
me,  we  can  do  nothing  else." 

*'  So  be  it.  You  need  have  no  apprehension 
as  to  your  material  comfort ;  I  have  lived  in  these 
mountains  for  a  long  time,  I  am  prepared  for  any 
emergency,  I  pass  my  time  in  the  summer  getting 
ready  for  the  winter.  There  is  a  cave,  or  recess 
rather,  behind  the  house  which,  as  you  see,  Is  built 
against  the  rock  wall,  and  it  Is  filled  with  wood 
enough  to  keep  us  warm  for  two  or  three  win- 
ters; I  have  an  ample  supply  of  provisions  and 
clothing  for  my  own  needs,  but  you  will  need  some- 
thing warmer  than  that  you  wear,"  he  continued. 

"  Have  you  needle  and  thread  and  cloth?  "  she 
asked. 

"  Everything,"  was  the  prompt  answer. 

"  Then  I  shall  not  suffer." 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  215; 

"  Are  you  that  wonder  of  wonders,"  asked  the 
man,  smiling  slightly,  "  an  educated  woman  who 
knows  how  to  sew?'* 

"  It  Is  a  tradition  of  Philadelphia,"  answered 
the  girl,  "  that  her  daughters  should  be  expert 
needlewomen.'* 

"  Oh,  you  are  from  Philadelphia.** 

"Yes,  and  you?" 

She  threw  the  question  at  him  so  deftly  and 
so  quickly  that  she  caught  him  unaware  and  off 
his  guard  a  second  time  within  the  hour. 

**  Baltimore,"  he  answered  before  he  thought 
and  then  bit  his  lip. 

He  had  determined  to  vouchsafe  her  no  in- 
formation regarding  himself  and  here  she  had 
surprised  him  into  an  admission  In  the  first  blush 
of  their  acquaintance,  and  she  knew  that  she  had 
triumphed  for  she  smiled  In  recognition  of  it. 

She  tried  another  tack. 

"  Mr.  Newbold,"  she  began  at  a  venture,  and 
as  It  was  five  years  since  he  had  heard  that  name, 
his  surprise  at  her  knowledge,  which  after  all  was 
very  simple,  betrayed  him  a  third  time.  "  We 
are  like  stories  I  have  read,  people  who  have  been 
cast  away  on  desert  islands  and  —  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  but  no  castaways  that 
I  have  ever  read  of  have  been  so  bountifully  pro- 


[2i6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Vided  with  everything  necessary  to  the  comfort 
of  life  as  we  are.  I  told  you  I  lacked  nothing 
for  your  material  welfare,  and  even  your  mind 
need  not  stagnate." 

**  I  have  looked  at  your  books  already,'*  said 
the  woman,  answering  his  glance. 

This  was  where  she  had  found  his  name  he 
realized. 

"  You  will  have  this  room  for  your  own  use 
and  I  will  take  the  other  for  mine,'*  he  continued. 

"  I  am  loath  to  dispossess  you." 

"  I  shall  be  quite  comfortable  there,  and  this 
shall  be  your  room  exclusively  except  when  you 
bid  me  enter,  as  when  I  bring  you  your  meals; 
otherwise  I  shall  hold  It  Inviolate." 

"  But,"  said  the  woman,  "  there  must  be  an 
equal  division  of  labor,  I  must  do  my  share." 

"  There  Isn't  much  to  do  In  the  winter,  except 
to  take  care  of  the  burros,  keep  up  the  fire  and 
prepare  what  we  have  to  eat." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  should  be  unequal  to  outdoor 
work,  but  in  the  rest  I  must  do  my  part." 

He  recognized  at  once  that  idleness  would  be 
irksome. 

"  So  you  shall,"  he  assented  heartily,  "  when 
your  foot  is  well  enough  to  make  you  an  efficient 
member  of  our  little  society." 

"  Thank  you,  and  now  -^  " 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  217 

"  Is  there  anything  else  before  I  get  supper?  " 

"  You  think  there  is  no  hope  of  their  searching 
for  me  here?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  If  James  Armstrong  had  been  in  the  party," 
she  said  reflectively,  "  I  am  sure  he  would  never 
have  given  up." 

"And  who  is  James  Armstrong,  may  I  ask?" 
burst  forth  the  other  bluntly. 

''  Why  he  —  I  —  he  is  a  friend  of  my  uncle's 
and  an  —  acquaintance  of  my  own." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  man  shortly  and  gloomily,  as 
he  turned  away. 

Enid  Maitland  had  been  very  brave  in  his 
presence,  but  when  he  went  out  she  put  her  head 
down  on  her  arms  on  the  table  and  cried  softly  to 
herself.  Was  ever  a  woman  in  such  a  predica- 
ment, thrown  into  the  arms  of  a  man  who  had 
established  every  conceivable  claim  upon  her 
gratitude,  forced  to  live  with  him  shut  up  in  a 
two-room  log  cabin  upon  a  lonely  mountain 
range,  surrounded  by  lofty  and  Inaccessible  peaks, 
pierced  by  terrific  gorges  soon  to  be  impassable 
from  the  snows?  She  had  read  many  stories  of 
castaways  from  Charles  Reade's  famous  "  Foul 
Play "  down  to  more  modern  Instances,  but  in 
those  cases  there  had  always  been  an  Island  com- 
paratively large  over  which  to  range,  with  pri- 


'2 1 8  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

vacy,  seclusion,  opportunity  for  withdrawal; 
bright  heavens,  balmy  breezes,  idyllic  conditions. 
Here  were  two  uplifted  from  the  earth  upon  a 
sky-piercing  mountain ;  they  would  have  had  more 
range  of  action  and  more  liberty  of  motion  if 
they  had  been  upon  a  derelict  In  the  ocean. 

And  she  realized  at  the  same  time  that  in  all 
those  stories  the  two  castaways  always  loved  each 
other.  Would  it  be  so  with  them?  Was  It  sol 
And  again  the  hot  flame  within  outvied  the  fire 
on  the  hearth  as  the  blood  rushed  to  the  smooth 
surface  of  her  cheek  again. 

What  would  her  father  say  If  he  could  know 
her  position,  what  would  the  world  say,  and  above 
all  what  would  Armstrong  say?  It  cannot  be 
denied  that  her  thoughts  were  terribly  and  over- 
whelmingly dismayed,  and  yet  that  despair  was 
not  without  a  certain  relief.  No  man  had  ever 
so  interested  her  as  this  one.  What  was  the  mys- 
tery of  his  life,  why  was  he  there,  what  had  he 
meant  when  he  had  blessed  the  Idle  Impulse  that 
had  sent  her  Into  his  arms? 

Her  heart  throbbed  again.  She  lifted  her 
face  from  her  hands  and  dried  her  tears,  a  warm 
glow  stole  over  her  and  once  again  not  altogether 
from  the  fire.  Who  and  what  was  this  man? 
Who  was  that  woman  whose  picture  he  had  taken 
from  her?     Well,  she  would  have  time  to  find 


The  Castaways  of  the  Mountains  219; 

out.  And  meantime  the  world  outside  could 
think  and  do  what  it  pleased.  She  sat  staring 
into  the  firelight,  seeing  pictures  there,  dreaming 
dreams.  She  was  as  lovely  as  an  angel  to  the 
man  when  he  came  back  into  the  room. 


BOOK  IV] 

OH  YE  ICE  AND  SNOW,  PRAISE  yE  THE 
LORD. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  woman's   heart 

That  upper  earth  on  which  they  lived  was  cov- 
ered with  a  thick  blanket  of  snow.  The  lakes 
and  pools  were  frozen  from  shore  to  shore. 
The  mountain  brooks,  if  they  flowed  at  all,  ran 
under  thick  arches  of  ice.  The  deepest  caiions 
were  well  nigh  impassable  from  huge  drifts  that 
sometimes  almost  rose  level  with  the  tops  of  the 
walls.  In  every  sheltered  spot  great  banks  of 
white  were  massed.  The  spreading  branches  of 
the  tall  pine  trees  in  the  valleys  drooped  under 
heavy  burdens  of  snow.  Only  here  and  there 
sharp  gaunt  peaks  were  swept  clean  by  the  fierce 
winter  winds  and  thrust  themselves  upward  in 
the  icy  air,  naked  and  bare.  The  cold  was  polar 
in  its  bitter  intensity. 

The  little  shelf,  or  plateau,  jutting  out  from  the 
mountain  side  upon  which  the  lonely  cabin  stood 
was  sheltered  from  the  prevailing  winds,  but  the 
house  itself  was  almost  covered  with  the  drifts. 
The  constant  fire  roaring  up  the  huge  stone  chim- 
ney had  melted  some  of  the  snow  at  the  top  and  it 
had  run  down  the  slanting  roof  and  formed  huge 

223 


224  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

icicles  on  what  had  been  the  eaves  of  the  house. 
The  man  had  cut  away  the  drifts  from  doors  and 
windows  for  light  and  liberty.  At  first  every 
stormy  night  would  fill  his  laborious  clearings 
with  drifting  snow,  but  as  it  became  packed  down 
and  frozen  solid  he  was  able  to  keep  his  various 
ways  open  without  a  great  deal  of  difficulty.  A 
little  work  every  morning  and  evening  sufficed. 

Every  day  he  had  to  go  down  the  mountain 
stairway  to  the  bottom  of  the  pocket  to  feed  and 
water  the  burros.  What  was  a  quick  and  simple 
task  In  milder,  warmer  seasons,  sometimes  took 
him  half  a  day  under  the  present  rigorous  con- 
ditions. And  the  woman  never  saw  him  start 
out  In  the  storm  without  a  sinking  heart  and  grave 
apprehension.  On  his  return  to  the  cabin  half 
frozen,  almost  spent  and  exhausted,  she  ever  wel- 
comed him  with  eager  gratitude  and  satisfaction 
which  would  shine  In  her  eyes,  throb  in  her  heart 
and  tremble  upon  her  lips,  control  it  as  she  might. 
And  he  thought  It  was  well  worth  all  the  trouble 
and  hardships  of  his  task  to  be  so  greeted  when 
he  came  back  to  her. 

Winter  had  set  in  unusually  early  and  with  un- 
precedented severity.  Any  kind  of  winter  in  the 
mountains  would  have  amazed  the  girl,  but  even 
the  man  with  his  larger  experiences  declared  he 
had  never  before  known  such  sharp  and  sudden 


The  WOxMAn's  Heart  225 

cold,  or  such  deep  and  lasting  snow.  His  daily- 
records  had  never  shown  such  low  temperatures, 
nor  had  his  observation  ever  noted  such  wild  and 
furious  storms  as  raged  then  and  there.  It 
seemed  as  If  Nature  were  in  a  conspiracy  to  seal 
up  the  mountains  and  all  they  contained,  to  make 
ingress  and  egress  alike  Impossible. 

A  month  had  elapsed  and  Enid's  foot  was  now 
quite  well.  The  man  had  manged  to  sew  up  her 
boot  where  his  knife  had  cut  It,  and  although  the 
job  was  a  clumsy  one  the  result  was  a  usable 
shoe.  It  Is  astonishing  the  comfort  she  took  when 
she  first  put  It  on  and  discarded  for  good  the 
shapeless  woolen  stocking  which  had  covered  the 
clumsy  bandage,  happily  no  longer  necessary. 
Although  the  torn  and  bruised  member  had 
healed  and  she  could  use  It  with  care,  her  foot  was 
still  very  tender  and  capable  of  sustaining  no  vio- 
lent or  long  continued  strain.  Of  necessity  she 
had  been  largely  confined  to  the  house,  but  when- 
ever It  had  been  possible  he  had  wrapped  her  in 
his  great  bear  skin  coat  and  had  helped  her  out 
to  the»edge  of  the  cliff  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

Sometimes  he  would  leave  her  there  alone, 
would  perhaps  have  left  her  alone  there  always 
had  she  not  Imperiously  required  his  company. 

Insensibly  she  had  acquired  the  habit  —  not  a 
difficult  one  for  a  woman  to  fall  into  —  of  taking 


226  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  lead  in  the  small  affairs  of  their  circumscribed 
existence,  and  he  had  acquiesced  in  her  dominance 
without  hesitation  or  remonstrance.  It  was  she 
who  ordered  their  daily  walk  and  conversation. 
Her  wishes  were  consulted  about  everything;  to 
be  sure  no  great  range  of  choice  was  allowed 
them,  or  liberty  of  action,  or  freedom,  in  the  con- 
straints with  which  nature  bound  them,  but  when- 
ever there  was  any  selection  she  made  it. 

The  man  yielded  everything  to  her  and  yet  he 
did  it  without  in  any  way  derogating  from  his 
self  respect  or  without  surrendering  his  natural 
Independence.  The  woman  instinctively  realized 
that  in  any  great  crisis,  in  any  large  matter,  the 
determination  of  which  would  naturally  affect 
their  present  or  their  future,  their  happiness,  wel- 
fare, life,  he  would  assert  himself,  and  his  asser- 
tion would  be  unquestioned  and  unquestionable 
by  her. 

There  was  a  delightful  satisfaction  to  the 
woman  in  the  whole  situation.  She  had  a 
woman's  desire  to  lead  in  the  smaller  things  of 
life  and  yet  craved  the  woman's  consciousness  that 
in  the  great  emergencies  she  would  be  led,  in  the 
great  battles  she  would  be  fought  for,  in  the  great 
dangers  she  would  be  protected,  In  the  great 
perils  she  would  be  saved.  There  was  rest,  com- 
fort, joy  and  satisfaction  In  these  thoughts. 


The  Woman's  Heart  227 

The  strength  of  the  man  she  mastered  was 
evidence  of  her  own  power  and  charm.  There 
was  a  sweet,  voiceless,  unconscious  flattery  In  his 
deference  of  which  she  could  not  be  unaware. 

Having  lltde  else  to  do,  she  studied  the  man 
and  she  studied  him  with  a  warm  desire  and  an 
enthusiastic  predisposition  to  find  the  best  In  him. 
She  would  not  have  been  a  human  girl  If  she  had 
not  been  thrilled  to  the  very  heart  of  her  by  what 
the  man  had  done  for  her.  She  recognized  that 
whether  he  asserted  It  or  not,  he  had  established 
an  everlasting  and  Indisputable  claim  upon  her. 

The  circumstances  of  their  first  meeting,  which 
as  the  days  passed  did  not  seem  quite  so  horrible 
to  her,  and  yet  a  thought  of  which  would  bring 
the  blood  to  her  cheek  still  on  the  Instant,  had  In 
some  way  turned  her  over  to  him.  His  consid- 
eration of  her,  his  gracious  tenderness  toward 
her,  his  absolute  abnegation,  his  evident  over- 
whelming desire  to  please  her,  to  make  the 
anomalous  situation  In  which  they  stood  to  each 
other  bearable  In  spite  of  their  lonely  and  un- 
observed Intimacy,  by  an  absolute  lack  of  pre- 
sumption on  his  part  —  all  those  things  touched 
her  profoundly. 

Although  she  did  not  recognize  the  fact  then, 
perhaps,  she  loved  him  from  the  moment  her  eyes 
had  opened  in  the  mist  and  rain  after  that  awful 


[228  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

battle  in  the  torrent  tO'  see  him  bending  over 
her. 

No  sight  that  had  ever  met  Enid  Maitland's 
eyes  was  so  glorious,  so  awe  inspiring,  so  uplift- 
ing and  magnificent  as  the  view  from  the  verge 
of  the  cliff  in  the  sunlight  of  some  bright  winter 
morning.  Few  women  had  ever  enjoyed  such 
privileges  as  hers.  She  did  not  know  whether 
she  liked  the  winter  crowned  range  best  that  way, 
or  whether  she  preferred  the  snowy  world,  glit- 
tering cold  in  the  moonlight;  or  even  whether  it 
was  more  attractive  when  it  was  dark  and  the 
peaks  and  drifts  were  only  lighted  by  the  stars 
which  shone  never  so  brightly  as  just  above  her 
head. 

When  he  allowed  her  she  loved  to  stand  some- 
times in  the  full  fury  of  the  gale  with  the  wind 
shrieking  and  sobbing,  like  lost  souls  in  some  icy 
inferno,  through  the  hills  and  over  the  pines,  the 
snow  beating  upon  her,  the  sleet  cutting  her  face 
If  she  dared  to  turn  toward  the  storm.  Generally 
he  left  her  alone  in  the  quieter  moments,  but  in  the 
tempest  he  stood  watchful,  on  guard  by  her  side, 
buttressing  her,  protecting  her,  sheltering  her. 
Indeed,  his  presence  then  was  necessary;  without 
him  she  could  scarce  have  maintained  a  footing. 
The  force  of  the  wind  might  have  hurled  her 
'down    the    miountain    but    for    his    strong    arm. 


The  Woman's  Heart  229 

iWhen  the  cold  grew  too  great  he  led  her  back 
carefully  to  the  hut  and  the  warm  fire. 

^h,  yes,  life  and  the  world  were  both  beauti- 
ful to  her  then,  in  night,  in  day,  by  sunlight,  by 
moonlight.  In  calm  and  storm.  Yet  it  made  no 
difference  what  was  spread  before  the  woman's 
eyes,  what  glorious  picture  was  exhibited  to  her 
gaze,  she  could  not  look  at  it  more  than  a  mo- 
ment without  thinking  of  the  man.  With  the 
most  fascinating  panorama  that  the  earth's  sur- 
face could  spread  before  human  vision  to  en- 
gage her  attention  she  looked  Into  her  own  heart 
and  saw  there  this  man  I 

Oh,  she  had  fought  against  it  at  first,  but  lately 
she  had  luxuriated  in  it.  She  loved  him,  she 
loved  him!  And  why  not?  What  is  It  that 
women  love  in  men?  Strength  of  body?  She 
could  remember  yet  how  he  had  carried  her  over 
the  mountains  in  the  midst  of  the  storm,  how  she 
had  been  so  bravely  upborne  by  his  arms  to  his 
heart.  She  realized  later  what  a  task  that  had 
been,  what  a  feat  of  strength.  The  uprooting 
of  that  sapling,  and  the  overturning  of  that  huge 
grizzly  were  child's  play  to  the  long  portage  up 
the  almost  Impassable  canon  and  mountain  side 
which  had  brought  her  to  this  dear  haven. 

Was  it  strength  of  character  she  sought,  reso- 
lution,  determination?     This   man   had   dellber- 


230  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

ately  withdrawn  from  the  world,  buried  himself 
in  this  mountain;  and  had  stayed  there  deaf  to  the 
alluring  call  of  man  or  woman;  he  had  had  the 
courage  to  do  that. 

Was  It  strength  of  mind  she  admired?  Enid 
Maltland  was  no  mean  judge  of  the  mental  pow- 
ers of  her  acquaintance.  She  was  just  as  full  of 
life  and  spirit  and  the  joy  of  them  as  any  young 
woman  should  be,  but  she  had  not  been  trained 
by  and  thrown  with  the  best  for  nothing. 
Noblesse  oblige!  That  his  was  a  mind  well 
stored  with  knowledge  of  the  most  varied  sort 
she  easily  and  at  once  perceived.  Of  course  the 
popular  books  of  the  last  five  years  had  passed 
him  by,  and  of  such  he  knew  nothing,  but  he  could 
talk  Intelligently,  Interestingly,  entertainingly  upon 
the  great  classics.  Keats  and  Shakespeare  were 
his  most  thumbed  volumes.  He  had  graduated 
from  Harvard  as  a  Civil  Engineer  with  the  high- 
est honors  of  his  class  and  school  and  the  youngest 
man  to  get  his  sheepskin!  Enid  Maltland  her- 
self was  a  woman  of  broad  culture  and  wide  read- 
ing and  she  deliberately  set  herself  to  fathom  this 
man's  capabilities.  Not  Infrequently,  much  to 
her  surprise,  sometimes  to  her  dismay,  but  gen- 
erally to  her  satisfaction,  she  found  that  she  had 
no  plummet  with  which  to  sound  his  greater 
depths. 


The  Woman's  Heart  231 

Did  she  seek  In  him  that  fine  flower  of  good 
breeding,  gentleness  and  consideration?  Where 
could  she  find  these  qualities  better  displayed? 
She  was  absolutely  alone  with  this  man,  entirely 
In  his  power,  shut  off  from  the  world  and  Its  In- 
terference as  effectually  as  if  they  had  both  been 
abandoned  on  an  ice  floe  at  the  North  Pole  or 
cast  away  on  some  lonely  Island  in  the  South  Seas, 
yet  she  felt  as  safe  as  if  she  had  been  in  her  own 
house,  or  her  uncle's,  with  every^  protection  that 
human  power  could  give.  He  had  never  pre- 
sumed upon  the  situation  In  the  least  degree,  he 
never  once  referred  to  the  circumstances  of  their 
meeting  In  the  remotest  way,  he  never  even  dis- 
cussed her  rescue  from  the  flood,  he  never  told 
her  how  he  had  borne  her  through  the  rain  to 
the  lonely  shelter  of  the  hills,  and  In  no  way  did 
he  say  anything  that  the  most  keenly  scrutinizing 
mind  would  torture  Into  an  allusion  to  the  pool 
and  the  bear  and  the  woman.  The  fineness  of 
his  breeding  was  never  so  well  exhibited  as  In  this 
reticence.  More  often  than  not  It  Is  what  he 
does  not  rather  than  what  he  does  that  Indicates 
the  man. 

It  would  be  folly  to  deny  that  he  never  thought 
of  these  things.  Had  he  forgotten  them  there 
would  be  no  merit  In  his  silence ;  but  to  remember 
them  and  to  keep  still  —  aye,  that  showed  the 


232  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

man  I  He  would  close  his  eyes  In  that  little  room 
on  the  other  side  of  the  door  and  see  again  the 
dark  pool,  her  white  shoulders,  her  graceful 
arms,  the  lovely  face  with  its  crown  of  sunny  hair 
rising  above  the  rushing  water.  He  had  listened 
to  the  roar  of  the  wind  through  the  long  nights, 
when  she  thought  him  asleep  if  she  thought  of  him 
at  all,  and  heard  again  the  scream  of  the  storm 
that  had  brought  her  to  his  arms.  No  snow  drop 
that  touched  his  cheek  when  he  was  abroad  but 
reminded  him  of  that  night  in  the  cold  rain  when 
he  had  held  her  close  and  carried  her  on.  He 
could  not  sit  and  mend  her  boot  without  remem- 
bering that  white  foot  before  which  he  would 
fain  have  prostrated  himself  and  upon  which  he 
would  have  pressed  passionate  kisses  if  he  had 
given  way  to  his  desires.  But  he  kept  all  these 
things  in  his  heart,  pondered  them  and  made  no 
sign. 

Did  she  ask  beauty  In  her  lover?  Ah,  there 
at  last  he  failed.  According  to  the  canons  of 
perfection  he  did  not  measure  up  to  the  standard. 
His  features  were  Irregular,  his  chin  a  trifle  too 
square,  his  mouth  a  thought  too  firm,  his  brow 
wrinkled  a  little ;  but  he  was  good  to  look  at,  for 
he  looked  strong,  he  looked  clean  and  he  looked 
true.  There  was  about  him,  too,  that  stamp  of 
practical  efficiency  that  men  who  can  do  things 


The  Woman's  Heart  233 

always  have.  You  looked  at  him  and  you  felt 
sure  that  what  he  undertook,  that  he  would 
accomplish;  that  decision  and  capability  were 
incarnate  In  him. 

But  after  all  the  things  are  said,  love  goes 
where  It  Is  sent,  and  I,  at  least,  am  not  the  sender. 
This  woman  loved  this  man  neither  because  nor 
In  spite  of  these  qualities.  That  they  were  might 
account  for  her  affection,  but  if  they  had  not 
been,  It  may  be  that  that  affection,  that  that  pas- 
sion, would  have  sprung  up  in  her  heart  still.  No 
one  can  say,  no  one  can  tell  how  or  why  those 
things  are.  She  had  loved  him  while  she  raged 
against  him  and  hated  him.  She  did  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  of  those  two  last  things,  now, 
and  she  loved  him  the  more. 

Mystery  Is  a  great  mover,  there  Is  nothing  so 
attractive  as  a  problem  we  cannot  solve.  The 
very  situation  of  the  man,  how  he  came  there, 
what  he  did  there,  why  he  remained  there,  ques- 
tions to  which  she  had  yet  no  answer,  stimulated 
her  profoundly.  Because  she  did  not  know  she 
questioned  in  secret;  Interest  was  aroused  and  the 
transition  to  love  was  easy. 

Propinquity,  too,  is  responsible  for  many  an 
affection.  **  The  Ivy  clings  to  the  first  met  tree." 
Given  a  man  and  woman  heart  free  and  throw 
them  together  and  let  there  be  decent  kindness 


i234.  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

on  both  sides,  and  It  is  almost  inevitable  that  each 
shall  love  the  other.  Isolate  them  from  the 
world,  let  them  see  no  other  companions  but  the 
one  man  and  the  one  woman  and  the  result  be- 
comes more  Inevitable. 

Yes,  this  woman  loved  this  man.  She  said  in 
her  heart  —  and  I  am  not  one  to  dispute  her  con- 
clusions —  that  she  would  have  loved  him  had 
he  been  one  among  millions  to  stand  before  her, 
and  it  was  true.  He  was  the  complement  of  her 
nature.  They  differed  in  temperament  as  much 
as  In  complexion,  and  yet  In  such  differences  as 
must  always  be  to  make  perfect  love  and  perfect 
union,  there  were  striking  resemblances,  necessary 
points  of  contact. 

There  was  no  reason  whatever  why  Enid 
Maitland  should  not  love  this  man.  The  only 
possible  check  upon  her  ^feelings  would  have  been 
her  rather  anomalous  relation  to  Armstrong,  but 
she  reflected  that  she  had  promised  him  definitely 
nothing.  When  she  had  met  him  she  had  been 
heart  whole,  he  had  made  some  Impression  upon 
her  fancy  and  might  have  made  more  with  greater 
opportunity,  but  unfortunately  for  him,  luckily  for 
her,  he  had  not  enjoyed  that  privilege.  She 
scarcely  thought  of  him  longer. 

She  would  not  have  been  human  if  her  mind 
had  not  dwelt  upon  the  world  beyond  the  sky- 
line on  the  other  side  of  the  range.     She  knew 


The  Woman^s  Heart  235 

How  those  who  loved  her  must  be  suffering  on  ac- 
count of  her  disappearance,  but  knowing  herself 
safe  and  realizing  that  within  a  short  time,  when 
the  spring  came  again,  she  would  go  back  to  them 
and  that  their  mourning  would  be  turned  into  joy 
by  her  arrival,  she  could  not  concern  herself  very 
greatly  over  their  present  feelings  and  emotions; 
and  besides,  what  would  be  the  use  of  worrying 
over  those  things.  There  was  subject  more  at- 
tractive for  her  thoughts  close  at  hand.  And  she 
was  too  blissfully  happy  to  entertain  for  more 
than  a  moment  any  sorrow. 

She  pictured  her  return  and  never  by  any 
chance  did  she  think  of  going  back  to  civilization 
alone.  The  man  she  loved  would  be  by  her  side, 
the  church's  blessing  would  make  them  one.  To 
do  her  justice  in  the  simplicity  and  purity  of  her 
thoughts  she  never  once  thought  of  what  the 
world  might  say  about  that  long  winter  sojourn 
alone  with  this  man.  She  was  so  conscious  of  her 
own  innocence  and  of  his  delicate  forbearance, 
she  never  once  thought  how  humanity  would  ele- 
vate its  brows  and  fairly  cry  upon  her  from  the 
house  tops.  She  did  not  realize  that  were  she 
ever  so  pure  and  so  innocent  she  could  not  now 
or  ever  reach  the  high  position  which  C^sar,  who 
was  none  too  reputable  himself,  would  fain  havei 
had  his  wife  enjoy? 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  man's  heart 

Now  love  produces  both  happiness  and  unhappi- 
ness,  dependent  upon  conditions,  but  on  the  whole 
I  think  the  happiness  predominates,  for  love  itself 
if  it  be  true  and  high  is  its  own  reward.  Love 
may  feel  itself  unworthy  and  may  shrink  even 
from  the  unlatching  of  the  shoe  lace  of  the  be- 
loved, yet  it  joys  in  its  own  existence  nevertheless. 
Of  course  Its  greatest  satisfaction  Is  In  the  return, 
but  there  Is  a  sweetness  even  In  the  despair  of  the 
truly  loving. 

Enid  Maitland,  however,  did  not  have  to  en- 
dure Indifference,  or  fight  against  a  passion  which 
met  with  no  response,  for  this  man  loved  her  with 
a  love  that  was  greater  even  than  her  own.  The 
moon,  In  the  trite  aphorism,  looks  on  many 
brooks,  the  brook  sees  no  moon  but  the  one  above 
him  In  the  heavens.  In  one  sense  his  merit  In  win- 
ning her  affection  for  himself  from  the  hundreds 
of  men  she  knew  was  the  greater;  in  many  years 
he  had  only  seen  this  one  woman.  Naturally  she 
should  be  everything  to  him.  She  represented  to 
him  not  only  the  woman  but  womankind.     He 

236 


The  Man's  Heart  237 

had  been  a  boy  practically  when  he  had  buried 
himself  in  those  mountains,  and  in  all  that  time 
he  had  seen  nobody  like  Enid  Maitland.  Every 
argument  which  has  been  exploited  to  show  why 
she  should  love  him  could  be  turned  about  to  ac- 
count for  his  passion  for  her.  Those  arguments 
are  not  necessary,  they  are  all  supererogatory, 
like  idle  words.  To  him  also  love  had  been  born 
in  an  hour.  It  had  flashed  into  existence  as  if 
from  the  fiat  of  the  Divine. 

Oh,  he  had  fought  against  it.  Like  the 
eremites  of  old  he  had  been  scourged  Into  the 
desert  by  remorse  and  another  passion,  but  time 
had  done  its  work.  The  woman  he  first  loved 
had  ministered  not  to  the  spiritual  side  of  the 
man,  or  if  she  had  so  ministered  In  any  degree  It 
was  because  he  had  looked  at  her  with  a  glamour 
of  Inexperience  and  youth.  During  those  five 
years  of  solitude,  of  study  and  of  reflection,  the 
truth  had  gradually  unrolled  itself  before  him. 
Conclusions  vastly  at  variance  with  what  he  had 
ever  believed  possible  as  to  the  woman  upon 
whom  he  had  first  bestowed  his  heart  had  got  Into 
his  being  and  were  In  solution  there,  this  present 
woman  was  the  precipitant  which  brought  them  to 
life.  He  knew  now  what  the  old  appeal  of  his 
wife  had  been.  He  knew  now  what  the  nev/  ap- 
peal of  this  woman  was. 


1238'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

In  humanity  two  things  in  life  are  inextricably 
intermingled,  body  and  soul.  Where  the  func- 
tion of  one  begins  and  the  function  of  the  other 
ends  no  one  Is  able  to  say.  In  all  human  pas- 
sions there  are  admixtures  of  the  earth  earthy. 
We  are  born  the  sons  of  the  Old  Adam  as  we  are 
re-born  the  sons  of  the  New.  Passions  are  com- 
plex. As  In  harvest  wheat  and  tares  grow  to- 
gether until  the  end,  so  In  love  earth  and  heaven 
{mingle  ever.  He  remembered  a  clause  from  an 
ancient  marriage  service  he  had  read.  "  With 
my  body  I  thee  worship,"  and  with  every  fiber 
of  his  physical  being,  he  loved  this  woman. 

It  would  be  idle  to  deny  that,  impossible  to 
disguise  the  facts,  but  in  the  melting  pot  of  pas- 
sion the  preponderant  ingredients  were  mental  and 
spiritual;  and  just  because  higher  and  holler 
things  predominated,  he  held  her  in  his  heart  a 
sacred  thing.  Love  is  like  a  rose:  the  material 
part  is  the  beautiful  blossom,  the  spiritual  factor 
is  the  fragrance  which  abides  in  the  rose  jar  even 
after  every  leaf  has  faded  away,  or  which  may  be 
expressed  from  the  soft  petals  by  the  hard  cir- 
cumstances of  pain  and  sorrow  until  there  is  left 
nothing  but  the  lingering  perfume  of  the  flower. 

His  body  trembled  If  she  laid  a  hand  upon  him, 
his  soul  thirsted  for  her;  present  or  absent  he 
conjured  before  his  tortured  brain  the  sweetness 


The  Man's  PIeart  239 

that  inhabited  her  breast.  He  had  been  clear- 
sighted enough  in  analyzing  the  past,  he  was 
neither  clear-sighted  nor  coherent  In  thinking  of 
the  present.  He  worshiped  her,  he  could  have 
thrown  himself  upon  his  knees  to  her;  if  it  would 
have  added  to  her  happiness  she  could  have 
killed  him,  smiling  at  her.  Rode  she  in  the  Jug- 
gernaut car  of  the  ancient  idol,  with  his  body 
would  he  have  unhesitatingly  paved  the  way  and 
have  been  glad  of  the  privilege.  He  longed  to 
compass  her  with  sweet  observances.  The  world 
revenged  Itself  upon  him  for  his  long  neglect,  it 
had  summed  up  in  this  one  woman  all  its  charm, 
Its  beauty,  Its  romance,  and  had  thrust  her  Into  his 
very  arms.  His  was  one  of  those  great  passions 
which  Illuminate  the  records  of  the  past.  Paolo 
had  not  loved  Francesca  more. 

Oh,  yes,  the  woman  knew  he  loved  her.  It 
was  not  In  the  power  of  mortal  man,  no  matter 
how  iron  his  restraint,  how  absolute  the  Imposi- 
tion of  his  will,  to  keep  his  heart  hidden,  his  pas- 
sion undisclosed.  No  one  could  keep  such  things 
secret.  His  love  for  her  cried  aloud  in  a  thousand 
ways:  even  his  look  when  he  dared  to  turn  his 
eyes  upon  her  was  eloquent,  of  his  feeling.  He 
never  said  a  word,  however;  he  held  his  lips  at 
least  fettered  and  bound  for  he  believed  that 
honor  and  Its  obligations  weighed  down  the  bal- 


240  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

ance  upon  the  contrary  side  to  which  his  inclina- 
tions lay. 

He  was  not  worthy  of  this  woman.  In  the 
first  place  all  he  had  to  offer  her  was  a  blood- 
stained hand.  That  might  have  been  overcome 
in  his  mind;  but  pride  in  his  self-punishment,  his 
resolution  to  withdraw  himself  from  man  and 
woman  until  such  time  as  God  completed  his  ex- 
piation and  signified  His  acceptance  of  the  peni- 
tent by  taking  away  his  life,  held  him  inexorably. 

The  dark  face  of  his  wife  rose  before  him. 
He  forced  himself  to  think  upon  her;  she  had 
loved  him,  she  had  given  him  all  that  she  could. 
He  remembered  how  she  had  pleaded  with  him 
that  he  take  her  on  that  last  and  most  dangerous 
of  journeys,  her  devotion  to  him  had  been  so  great 
she  could  not  let  him  go  out  of  her  sight  a  mo- 
ment, he  thought  fatuously]  And  he  had  killed 
her.  In  the  queer  turmoil  of  his  brain  he  blamed 
himself  for  everything.  He  could  not  be  false 
to  his  purpose,  false  to  her  memory,  unworthy 
of  the  passion  in  which  he  believed  she  had  held 
him  and  which  he  believed  he  had  inspired. 

If  he  had  gone  out  in  the  world,  after  her  death, 
he  might  have  forgotten  most  of  these  things,  he 
imight  have  lived  them  down.  Saner,  clearer 
views  would  have  come  to  him.  His  morbid  self- 
reproach  and  self-consciousness  would  have  been 


The  Man's  Heart  241: 

changed.  But  he  had  lived  with  them  alone  for 
five  years  and  now  there  was  no  putting  them 
aside.  Honor  and  pride,  the  only  things  that 
may  successfully  fight  against  love,  overcame  him. 
He  could  not  give  way.  He  wanted  to,  every 
time  he  was  In  her  presence  he  longed  to,  sweep 
her  to  his  heart  and  crush  her  in  his  arms  and 
bend  her  head  back  and  press  kisses  of  fire  on 
her  lips. 

But  honor  and  pride  held  him  back.  How 
long  would  they  continue  to  exercise  dominion 
over  him?  Would  the  time  come  when  his 
passion  rising  like  a  sea  would  thunder  upon  these 
artificial  embankments  of  his  soul,  beat  them 
down  and  sweep  them  away? 

At  first  the  disparity  between  their  situations, 
not  so  much  on  account  of  family  or  of  property 
—  the  treasures  of  the  mountains,  hidden  since 
creation,  he  had  discovered  and  let  lie  —  but  be- 
cause of  the  youth  and  position  of  the  woman 
compared  to  his  own  maturer  years,  his  desper- 
ate experience,  and  his  social  withdrawal,  had  re- 
inforced his  determination  to  live  and  love  with- 
out a  sign.  But  he  had  long  since  got  beyond 
this.  Had  he  been  free  he  would  have 
taken  her  like  a  viking  of  old,  if  he  had  to  pluck 
her  from  amid  a  thousand  swords  and  carry  her 
to  a  beggar's  hut  which  love  would  have  turned 


242  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

to  a  palace.  And  she  would  have  come  with 
him  on  the  same  conditions. 

He  did  not  know  that.  Women  have  learned 
through  centuries  of  weakness  that  fine  art  of  con- 
cealment which  man  has  never  mastered.  She 
never  let  him  see  what  she  thought  of  him.  Yet 
he  was  not  without  suspicion;  if  that  suspicion 
grew  to  certainty,  would  he  control  himself 
then? 

At  first  he  had  sought  to  keep  out  of  her  way, 
but  she  had  compelled  him  to  come  in.  The 
room  that  was  kitchen  and  bedroom  and  store- 
room for  him  was  cheerless  and  somewhat  cold. 
Save  at  night  or  when  he  was  busy  with  other 
tasks  outside  they  lived  together  in  the  great 
room.  It  was  always  warm,  It  was  always 
bright,  It  was  always  cheerful,  there. 

The  little  piles  of  manuscript  she  had  noted 
were  books  he  had  written.  He  made  no  effort 
to  conceal  such  things  from  her.  He  talked 
frankly  enough  about  his  life  In  the  hills,  Indeed 
there  was  no  possibility  of  avoiding  the  discus- 
sion of  such  topics.  On  but  two  subjects  was  he 
inexorably  silent.  One  was  the  present  state  of 
his  affections  and  the  other  was  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  his  lonely  life.  She  knew  beyond 
peradventure  that  he  loved  her,  but  she  had  no 
faint  suspicion  even  as  to  the  reason  why  he  had 


The  Man's  Heart  243" 

become  a  recluse.  He  had  never  given  her  the 
slightest  clew  to  his  past  save  that  admission  that 
he  had  known  Kirkby,  which  was  In  itself  nothing 
definite  and  which  she  never  connected  with  that 
package  of  letters  which  she  still  kept  with  her. 

The  man's  mind  was  too  active  and  fertile  to 
be  satisfied  with  manual  labor  alone,  the  books 
that  he  had  written  were  scientific  treatises  in  the 
main.  One  was  a  learned  discussion  of  the  fauna 
and  flora  of  the  mountains.  Another  was  an  ex- 
haustive account  of  the  mineral  resources  and 
geological  formations  of  the  range.  He  had 
only  to  allow  a  whisper,  a  suspicion  of  his  dis- 
covery of  gold  and  silver  in  the  mountains  to 
escape  him  and  the  canons  and  crests  alike  would 
be  filled  with  eager  prospectors.  Still  a  third 
work  was  a  scientific  analysis  of  the  water  powers 
in  the  canons. 

He  had  willingly  allowed  her  to  read  them  all. 
Much  of  them  she  found  technical  and,  aside 
from  the  fact  that  he  had  written  them,  uninter- 
esting. But  there  was  one  book  remaining  In 
which  he  simply  discussed  the  mountains  in  the 
various  seasons  of  the  year;  when  the  snows  cov- 
'ered  them,  when  the  grass  and  the  moss  came 
again,  when  the  flowers  bloomed,  when  autumn 
touched  the  trees.  There  was  the  soul  of  the 
man,   poetry   expressed   in   prose,    man-like   but 


244  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

none  the  less  poetry  for  that.  This  boolc  she 
pored  over,  she  questioned  him  about  It,  they  dis- 
cussed It  as  they  discussed  Keats  and  the  other 
poets. 

Those  were  happy  evenings.  She  on  one  side 
of  the  fire  sewing,  her  finger  wound  with  cloth  to 
hold  his  giant  thimble,  fashioning  for  herself 
some  winter  garments  out  of  a  gay  colored,  red, 
white  and  black  ancient  and  exquisitely  woven 
Navajo  blanket,  soft  and  pliable  almost  as  an  old 
fashioned  piece  of  satin  —  priceless  If  she  had 
but  known  It  —  which  he  put  at  her  disposal. 
While  on  the  other  side  of  the  same  homely 
blaze  he  made  her  out  of  the  skins  of  some  of  the 
animals  that  he  had  killed,  shapeless  foot  cover- 
ings, half  moccasin  and  wholly  legging,  which 
she  could  wear  over  her  shoes  In  her  short  ex- 
cursions around  the  plateau  and  which  would  keep 
her  feet  warm  and  comfortable. 

By  her  permission  he  smoked  as  he  worked, 
enjoying  the  hour,  putting  aside  the  past  and  the 
future  and  for  a  few  moments  blissfully  content. 
Sometimes  he  laid  aside  his  pipe  and  whatever 
work  he  was  engaged  upon  and  read  to  her  from 
some  Immortal  noble  number.  Sometimes  the  en- 
tertainment fell  to  her  and  she  sang  to  him  In  her 
glorious  contralto  voice,  music  that  made  him 
mad.     Once  he  could  stand  it  no  longer.     At  the 


The  Man's  Heart  245 

fend  of  a  burst  of  song  which  filled  the  little  room 
e — he  had  risen  to  his  feet  while  she  sang,  com- 
pelled to  the  erect  position  by  the  magnificent 
melody  —  as  the  last  notes  died  away  and  she 
smiled  at  him,  triumphant  and  expectant  of  his 
praise  and  his  approval,  he  hurled  himself  out  of 
the  room  and  Into  the  night;  wrestling  for  hours 
with  the  storm  which  after  all  was  but  a  trifle  to 
that  which  raged  in  his  bosom.  While  she,  left 
alone  and  deserted,  quaked  within  the  silent  room 
till  she  heard  him  come  back. 

Often  and  often  when  she  slept  quietly  on  one 
side  the  thin  partition,  he  lay  awake  on  the  other, 
and  sometimes  his  passion  drove  him  forth  to 
cool  the  fever,  the  fire  in  his  soul,  in  the  icy,  win- 
try air.  The  struggle  within  him  preyed  upon 
him,  the  keen  loving  eye  of  the  woman  searched 
his  face,  scrutinized  him,  looked  into  his  heart, 
saw  what  was  there. 

She  determined  to  end  it,  deciding  that  He  must 
confess  his  affections.  She  had  no  premonition 
of  the  truth  and  no  consideration  of  any  evil  con- 
sequences held  her  back.  She  could  give  free 
range  to  her  love  and  her  devotion.  She  had  the 
ordering  of  their  lives  and  she  had  the  power  to 
end  the  situation  growing  more  and  more  impos- 
sible. She  fancied  the  matter  easily  terminable. 
She  thought  she  had  only  to  let  him  see  her  heart 


246  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

In  such  ways  as  a  maiden  may,  to  bring  joy  to 
his  own,  to  make  him  speak.  She  did  not  dream 
of  the  reality. 

One  night,  therefore,  a  month  or  more  after 
she  had  come,   she   resolved  to   end  the  uncer- 
tainty.    She  believed  the  easiest  and  the  quickest 
way  would  be  to  get  him  to  tell  her  why  he  was 
there.     She  naturally  surmised  that  the  woman 
of  the  picture,  which  she  had  never  seen  since 
the  first  day  of  her  arrival,  was  In  some  measure 
the  cause  of  it;  and  the  only  pain  she  had  In  the 
situation  was  the  keen  jealousy  that  would  ob- 
trude Itself  at  the  thought  of  that  woman.     She 
remembered  everything  that  he  had  said  to  her 
and  she  recalled  that  he  had  once  made  the  re- 
mark that  he  would  treat  her  as  he  would  have 
his  wife  treated  If  he  had  one;  therefore  who 
ever  and  whatever  the  picture  of  this  woman  was 
she  was  not  his  wife.    She  might  have  been  some 
one    he   had   loved,    who    had   not   loved    him 
She  might  have  died.     She  was  jealous  of  her. 
but  she  did  not  fear  her. 

After  a  long  and  painful  effort  the  woman  had 
completed  the  winter  suit  she  had  made  for  her- 
self. He  had  advised  her  and  had  helped  her. 
It  was  a  belted  tunic  that  fell  to  her  knees,  the 
red  and  black  stripes  ran  around  it,  edged  the 
broad  collar,  cuffed  the  warm  sleeves  and  marked 


The  Man's  Heart  247 

the  graceful  waist  line.  It  was  excessively  be- 
coming to  her.  He  had  been  down  into  the  val- 
ley, or  the  pocket,  for  a  final  Inspection  of  the 
burros  before  the  night,  which  promised  to  be 
severe,  fell,  and  she  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
opportunity  to  put  it  on. 

She  knew  that  she  was  beautiful;  her  deter- 
mination to  make  this  evening  count  had  brought 
an  unusual  color  to  her  cheeks,  an  unwonted 
sparkle  to  her  eye.  She  stood  up  as  she  heard 
him  enter  the  other  room,  she  was  standing  erect 
as  he  came  through  the  door  and  faced  her.  He 
had  only  seen  her  in  the  now  somewhat  shabby 
blue  of  her  ordinary  camp  dress  before,  and  her 
beauty  fairly  smote  him  In  his  face.  He  stood 
before  her,  wrapped  in  his  great  fur  coat,  snow 
and  ice  clinging  to  It,  entranced.  The  woman 
smiled  at  the  effect  she  produced. 

"  Take  off  your  coat,"  she  said  gently,  ap- 
proaching him.  *'  Here,  let  me  help  you.  Do 
you  realize  that  I  have  been  here  over  a  month 
now?  I  want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you.  I 
want  you  to  tell  me  something." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   KISS   ON  THE   HAND 

**  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  began  Enid  Maltland 
gravely  enough,  for  she  quite  realized  the  seri- 
ous nature  of  the  Impending  conversation,  *'  did 
it  ever  occur  to  you  that  you  know  practically  all, 
about  me,  while  I  know  practically  nothing  about 
you?" 

The  man  bowed  his  head. 

"  You  may  have  fancied  that  I  was  not  aware 
of  It,  but  in  one  way  or  another  you  have  pos- 
sessed yourself  of  pretty  nearly  all  of  my  short 
and,  until  I  met  you,  most  uneventful  life,"  she 
continued. 

Newbold  might  have  answered  that  there  was 
one  subject  which  had  been  casually  introduced 
by  her  upon  one  occasion  and  to  which  she  had 
never  again  referred,  but  which  was  to  him  the 
most  Important  of  all  subjects  connected  with  her; 
and  that  was  the  nature  of  her  relationship  to 
one  James  Armstrong  whose  name,  although  he 
had  heard  It  but  once,  he  had  not  forgotten. 
The  girl  had  been  frankness  Itself  in  following 
his  deft  leads  when  he  talked  with  her  about  her- 

248 


The  Kiss  on  the  Hand  ^49 

self,  but  she  had  shown  the  same  reticence  in  re- 
curring to  Armstrong  that  he  had  displayed  in 
questioning  her  about  him.  The  statement  she 
had  just  made  as  to  his  acquaintance  with  her  his- 
tory was  therefore  sufficiently  near  the  truth  to 
pass  unchallenged  and  once  again  he  gravely 
bowed  in  acquiescence. 

"  I  have  withheld  nothing  from  you,"  went  on 
the  girl;  "whatever  you  wanted  to  know,  I  have 
told  you.  I  had  nothing  to  conceal,  as  you  have 
found  out.  Why  you  wanted  to  know  about  me, 
I  am  not  quite  sure." 

"  It  v/as  because  — "  burst  out  the  man  im- 
petuously, and  then  he  stopped  abruptly  and  just 
in  time. 

Enid  Maitland  smiled  at  him  in  a  way  that  in- 
dicated she  knew  what  was  behind  the  sudden 
check  he  had  Imposed  upon  himself. 

"  Whatever  your  reason,   your  curiosity  —  " 

"  Don't  call  It  that,  please." 

**  Your  desire,  then,  has  been  gratified.  Now 
it  is  my  turn.  I  am  not  even  sure  about  your 
name.  I  have  seen  it  in  these  books  and  naturally 
I  have  imagined  that  it  is  yours." 

"  It  is  mine." 

**  Well,  that  is  really  all  that  I  know  about 
you.  And  now  I  shall  be  quite  frank.  I  want 
to  know  more.     You  evidently  have  something 


ii250  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

to  conceal  or  you  would  not  be  living  here  in  this 
way.  I  have  never  asked  you  about  yourself,  or 
manifested  the  least  curiosity  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem you  present,  to  find  the  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery of  your  life.*' 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  man,  "  you  didn't  care 
enough  about  it  to  take  the  trouble  to  inquire." 

**  You  know,"  answered  the  girl,  *'  that  is  not 
true.  I  have  been  consumed  with  desire  to 
know?" 

"A  woman's  curiosity?" 

"  Not  that,"  was  the  soft  answer  that  turned 
away  his  wrath. 

She  was  indeed  frank.  There  was  that  in  her 
way  of  uttering  those  two  simple  words  that  set 
his  pulses  bounding.  He  was  not  altogether  and 
absolutely  blind. 

"  Come,"  said  the  girl,  extending  her  hand  to 
him,  "  we  are  alone  here  together.  We  must 
help  each  other.  You  have  helped  me,  you  have 
been  of  the  greatest  service  to  me.  I  can't  begin 
to  count  all  that  you  have  done  for  me;  my 
gratitude  —  " 

"Only  that?" 

"  But  that  is  all  that  you  have  ever  asked  or 
expected,"  answered  the  young  woman  in  a  low 
voice,  whose  gentle  tones  did  not  at  all  accord 
with  the  boldness  and  courage  of  the  speech. 


The  Kiss  on  the  Hand  '2511 

"  You  mean?  "  asked  the  man,  staring  at  her, 
his  face  aflame. 

"  I  mean,"  answered!  the  girl  swiftly,  willfully 
misinterpreting  and  turning  his  half-spoken  ques- 
tion another  way,  "  I  mean  that  I  am  sure  that 
some  trouble  has  brought  you  here.  I  do  not 
wish  to  force  your  confidence  —  I  have  no  right 
to  do  so  —  yet  I  should  like  to  enjoy  it.  Can't 
you  give  it  to  me?  I  want  to  help  you.  I  want 
to  do  my  best  to  make  some  return  for  what  you 
have  been  to  me  and  have  done  for  me." 

"  I  ask  but  one  thing,**  he  said  quickly. 

"And  what  is  that?" 

But  again  he  checked  himself. 

"  No,"  he  said,  *'  I  am  not  free  to  ask  anything 
of  you." 

And  that  answer  to  Enid  Maitland  was  like  a; 
knife  thrust  in  the  heart.  The  two  had  been 
standing,  confronting  each  other.  Her  heart 
grew  faint  within  her.  She  stretched  out  her 
hand  vaguely,  as  if  for  support.  He  stepped 
toward  her,  but  before  he  reached  her  she  caught 
the  back  of  the  chair  and  sank  dov/n  weakly. 
That  he  should  be  bound  and  not  free,  had  never 
once  occurred  to  her.  She  had  quite  misinter- 
preted the  meaning  of  his  remark. 

The  man  did  not  help  her;  he  could  not  help 
her.     He  just  stood   and  looked   at  her.     She 


252  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

fougHt  valiantly  for  self-control  a  moment  or 
two  and  then  utterly  oblivious  to  the  betrayal  of 
her  feelings  Involved  In  the  question  —  the  mo- 
ments were  too  great  for  consideration  of  such 
trivial  matters  —  she  faltered : 

"You  mean  there  Is  some  other  woman?" 

He  shook  his  head  In  negation. 

"  I  don't  understand.'* 

"  There  was  some  other  woman?  " 

"Where  Is  she  now?" 

"  Dead." 

"  But  you  said  you  were  not  free." 

He  nodded. 

"  Did  you  care  so  much  for  her  that  now  — 
that  now — " 

"  Enid,"  he  cried  desperately.  "  Believe  me, 
I  never  knew  what  love  was  until  I  met  you." 

The  secret  was  out  now,  It  had  been  known  to 
her  long  since,  but  now  it  was  publicly  proclaimed. 
Even  a  man  as  blind,  as  obsessed,  as  he  could  not 
mistake  the  joy  that  Illuminated  her  face  at  this 
announcement.  That  very  joy  and  satisfaction 
produced  upon  him,  however,  a  very  different  ef- 
fect than  might  have  been  anticipated.  Had  he 
been  free  Indeed  he  would  have  swept  her  to 
his  breast  and  covered  her  sweet  face  with  kisses 
broken  by  whispered  words  of  passionate  endear- 
ment.    Instead  of  that  he  shrank  back  from  her;. 


The  Kiss  on  the  Hand  253 

and  It  was  she  who  was  forced  to  take  up  the  bur- 
den of  the  conversation. 

**  You  say  that  she  Is  dead,*'  she  began  in  sweet 
appealing  bewilderment,  *'  and  that  you  care  so 
much  for  me  and  yet  you  — " 

"I  am  a  murderer,"  he  broke  out  harshly. 
"  There  Is  blood  upon  my  hands,  the  blood  of  a 
woman  who  loved  me  and  whom,  boy  as  I  was, 
I  thought  that  I  loved.  She  was  my  wife,  I 
killed  her.'* 

"  Great  Heaven !  "  cried  the  girl,  amazed  be- 
yond measure  or  expectation  by  this  sudden  avowal 
which  she  had  never  once  suspected,  and  her  hand 
instinctively  went  to  the  bosom  of  her  dress  where 
she  kept  that  soiled,  water-stained  packet  of  let- 
ters, "  are  you  that  man?  " 

"  I  am  that  man  that  did  that  thing,  but  what 
do  you  know?  '*  he  asked  quickly,  amazed  in  his 
turn. 

"  Old  Kirkby,  my  uncle  Robert  Maitland,  told 
me  your  story.  They  said  that  you  had  disap- 
peared from  the  haunts  of  men — = " 

"  And  they  were  right.  What  else  was  there 
for  me  to  do  ?  Although  innocent  of  crime,  I  was 
blood  guilty.  I  was  mad.  No  punishment  could 
be  visited  upon  me  like  that  imposed  by  the  stern, 
awful,  appalling  fact.  I  swore  to  prison  myself, 
to  have  nothing  more  forever  to  do  with  mankind 


254  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

or  womankind  with  whom  I  was  unworthy  t6 
associate,  to  live  alone  until  God  took  me.  To 
cherish  my  memories,  to  make  such  expiation  as  I 
could,  to  pray  daily  for  forgiveness.  I  came  here 
to  the  wildest,  the  most  inaccessible,  the  loneliest, 
spot  in  the  range.  No  one  ever  would  come 
here  I  fancied,  no  one  ever  did  come  here  but  you. 
I  was  happy  after  a  fashion,  or  at  least  content. 
I  had  chosen  the  better  part.  I  had  work,  I 
could  read,  write,  remember  and  dream.  But 
you  came  and  since  that  time  life  has  been  heaveni 
and  hell.  Heaven  because  I  love  you,  hell  be- 
cause to  love  you  means  disloyalty  to  the  past,  to  a» 
woman  who  loved  me.  Heaven  because  you  are 
here,  I  can  hear  your  voice,  I  can  see  you,  your 
soul  Is  spread  out  before  me  in  its  sweetness,  in  its 
purity;  hell  because  I  am  false  to  my  determina- 
tion, to  my  vow,  to  the  love  of  the  past." 

"  And  did  you  love  her  so  much,  then?  "  asked 
the  girl,  now  fiercely  jealous  and  forgetful  of  other 
things  for  the  moment. 

"  It^s  not  that,"  said  the  man.  "  I  was  not 
much  more  than  a  boy,  a  year  or  two  out  of  col- 
lege. I  had  been  In  the  mountains  a  year.  This 
woman  lived  in  a  mining  camp,  she  was  a  fresh, 
clean,  healthy  girl,  her  father  died  and  the  whole 
camp  fathered  her,  looked  after  her,  and  all  the 
young  men  In  the  range  for  miles  on  either  side 


The  Kiss  on  the  Hand  255 

were  in  love  with  her.  I  supposed  that  I  was, 
too,  and  —  well,  I  won  her  from  the  others.  We 
had  been  married  but  a  few  months  and  a  part  of 
the  time  my  business  as  a  mining  engineer  had 
called  me  away  from  her.  I  can  remember  the 
day  before  we  started  on  the  last  journey.  I  was 
going  alone  again,  but  she  was  so  unhappy  over 
my  departure,  she  clung  to  me,  pleaded  with  me, 
implored  me  to  take  her  with  me.  Insisted  on  go- 
ing wherever  I  went,  would  not  be  left  behind. 
She  couldn't  bear  me  out  of  her  sight.  It  seemed. 
I  don't  know  what  there  was  In  me  to  have  in- 
spired such  devotion,  but  I  must  speak  the  truth, 
however  it  may  sound.  She  seemed  wild,  crazy 
about  me.  I  didn't  understand  It;  frankly,  I 
didn't  know  what  such  love  was  —  then  —  but  I 
took  her  along.  Shall  I  not  be  honest  with  you? 
In  spite  of  the  attraction  physical,  I  had  begun  to 
feel  even  then  that  she  was  not  the  mate  for  me. 
I  don't  deserve  It,  and  It  shames  me  to  say  It  of 
course,  but  I  wanted  a  better  mind,  a  higher  soul. 
That  made  It  harder  —  what  I  had  to  do,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know." 

"  The  only  thing  I  could  do  when  I  came  to  my 
senses  was  to  sacrifice  myself  to  her  memory  be- 
cause she  had  loved  me  so;  as  It  were,  she  gave 
up  her  life  for  me,  I  could  do  no  less  than  be  true 


256  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

and  loyal  to  the  remembrance.  It  wasn't  a  sacri- 
fice either  until  you  came,  but  as  soon  as  you 
opened  your  eyes  and  looked  into  mine  In  the  rain 
and  the  storm  upon  the  rock  to  which  I  had  car- 
ried you  after  I  had  fought  for  you,  I  knew  that 
I  loved  you.  I  knew  that  the  love  that  had  come 
Into  my  heart  was  the  love  of  which  I  had 
dreamed,  that  everything  that  had  gone  before 
was  nothing,  that  I  had  found  the  one  woman 
whose  soul  should  mate  with  mine." 

**  And  this  before  I  had  said  a  word  to  you?  " 
"What  are  words?  The  heart  speaks  to  the 
heart,  the  soul  whispers  to  the  soul.  And  so  it 
was  with  us.  I  had  fought  for  you,  you  were 
mine,  mine.  My  heart  sang  It  as  I  panted  and 
struggled  over  the  rocks  carrying  you.  It  said 
the  words  again  and  again  as  I  laid  you  down 
here  In  this  cabin.  It  repeated  them  over  and 
over;  mine,  mine!  It  says  that  every  day  and 
hour.  And  yet  honor  and  fidelity  bid  me  stay. 
I  am  free,  yet  bound;  free  to  love  you,  but  not  to 
take  you.  My  heart  says  yes,  my  conscience  no. 
I  should  despise  myself  If  I  were  false  to  the  love 
which  my  wife  bore  me,  and  how  could  I  offer 
you  a  blood  stained  hand?  '* 

He  had  drawn  very  near  her  while  he  spoke; 
she  had  risen  again  and  the  two  confronted  each 
other.     He  stretched  out  his  hand  as  he  asked 


The  Kiss  on  the  Hand  257 

that  last  question,  almost  as  if  he  had  offered  it  to 
her.  She  made  the  best  answer  possible  to  his  de- 
mand, for  before  he  could  divine  what  she  would 
be  at,  she  had  seized  his  hand  and  kissed  It,  and 
this  time  It  was  the  man  whose  knees  gave  way. 
He  sank  down  in  the  chair  and  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  God  I  Oh,  God!  "  he  cried  In  his  humllla- 
tion  and  shame.  "  If  I  had  only  met  you  first,  or 
if  my  wife  had  died  as  others  die,  and  not  by  my 
hand  in  that  awful  hour.  I  can  see  her  now, 
broken,  bruised,  bleeding,  torn.  I  can  hear  the 
report  of  that  weapon.  Her  last  glance  at  me  in 
the  midst  of  her  Indescribable  agony  was  one  of 
thankfulness  and  gratitude.  I  can't  stand  it,  I 
am  unworthy  even  of  her.'* 

"  But  you  could  not  help  it,  it  was  not  your 
fault.  And  you  can't  help  =^  caring — for 
me^^r— 

"  I  ought  to  help  it,  I  ought  not  love  you,  I 
ought  to  have  known  that  I  was  not  fit  to  love  any 
woman,  that  I  had  no  right,  that  I  was  pledged 
like  a  monk  to  the  past.  I  have  been  weak,  a 
fool.  I  love  you  and  my  honor  goes,  I  love  you 
and  my  self  respect  goes,  I  love  you  and  my  pride 
goes.  Would  God  I  could  say  I  love  you  and  my 
life  goes  and  end  It  all."  He  stared  at  her  a  lit- 
tle space.      "  There  Is  only  one  ray  of  satisfac- 


^5?  The  Chalice  or:  Courage 

tion  in  It  at  all,  one  gleam  of  comfort,"  he  added. 

"And  what  is  that?'* 

"  You  don't  know  what  the  suffering  is,  you 
don't  understand,  you  don't  comprehend." 

"And  why  not?" 

"  Because  you  do  not  love  me." 

"  But  I  do,"  said  the  woman  quite  simply,  as 
if  It  were  a  matter  of  course  not  only  that  she 
should  love  him,  but  that  she  should  also  tell 
him  so. 

The  man  stared  at  her,  amazed.  Such  fierce 
surges  of  joy  throbbed  through  him  as  he  had  not 
thought  the  human  frame  could  sustain.  This 
woman  loved  him,  in  some  strange  way  he  had 
gained  her  affection.  It  was  Impossible,  yet  she 
had  said  so!  He  had  been  a  blind  fool.  He 
could  see  that  now.  She  stood  before  him  and 
smiled  up  at  him,  looking  at  him  through  eyes 
misted  with  tears,  with  lips  parted,  with  color 
coming  and  going  in  her  cheek  and  with  her  bosom 
rising  and  falling.  She  loved  him,  he  had  but  to 
step  nearer  to  her  to  take  her  In  his  arms.  There 
/  was  trust,  devotion,  surrender,  everything,  in 
her  attitude  and  between  them,  like  that  great  gulf 
which  lay  between  the  rich  man  and  the  beggar, 
that  separated  heaven  and  hell,  was  that  he  could 
not  cross. 

"I  never  dreamed,  I  never  hoped  —  oh,"  he 


The  Kiss  on  the  Hand  259; 

exclaimed  as  if  he  had  got  his  death  wound,  "  this 
cannot  be  borne." 

He  turned  away,  but  in  two  swift  steps  she 
caught  him. 

**  Where  do  you  go?  " 

**  Out,  out  into  the  night." 

"You  cannot  go  now,  it  is  dark;  hark  to  the 
storm,  you  will  miss  your  footing ;  you  would  fall, 
you  would  freeze,  you  would  die." 

"What  matters  that?" 

"  I  cannot  have  it." 

"  It  would  be  better  so." 

He  strove  again  to  wrench  himself  away,  but 
she  would  not  be  denied.  She  clung  to  him  tena- 
ciously. 

"  I  will  not  let  you  go  unless  you  give  me  your 
word  of  honor  that  you  will  not  leave  the  plateau, 
and  that  you  will  come  back  to  me." 

"  I  tell  you  that  the  quicker  and  more  surely  I 
go  out  of  your  life,  the  happier  and  better  it  will 
be  for  you." 

"  And  I  tell  you,"  said  the  woman  resolutely, 
"  that  you  can  never  go  out  of  my  life  again,  liv- 
ing or  dead,"  she  released  him  with  one  hand 
and  laid  it  upon  her  heart,  "  you  are  here." 

"  Enid,"  cried  the  man. 

"  No,"  she  thrust  him  gently  away  with  one 
hand  yet  detained  him  with  the  other  —  that  was 


26o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

emblematic  of  the  situation  between  them.  "  Not 
now,  not  yet,  let  me  think,  but  promise  me  you 
will  do  yourself  no  harm,  you  will  let  nothing  im- 
peril your  life." 

"  As  you  will,"  said  the  man  regretfully.  *'  I 
had  purposed  to  end  it  now  and  forever,  but  I 
promise." 

"  Your  word  of  honor?  " 

"  My  word  of  honor." 

"  And  you  won't  break  it?  " 

"  I  never  broke  it  to  a  human  being,  much  less 
will  I  do  so  to  you  ?  " 

She  released  him.  He  went  into  the  other  room 
and  she  heard  him  cross  the  floor  and  open  the 
door  and  go  out  into  the  night,  into  the  storm 
again. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  FACE  IN  THE  LOCKET 

Left  alone  in  the  room  she  sat  down  again  be- 
fore the  fire  and  drew  from  her  pocket  the  packet 
of  letters.  She  knew  them  by  heart,  she  had 
read  and  re-read  them  often  when  she  had  been 
alone.  They  had  fascinated  her.  They  were 
letters  from  some  other  man  to  this  man's  wife. 
They  were  signed  by  an  initial  only  and  the  iden- 
tity of  the  writer  was  quite  unknown  to  her.  The 
woman's  replies  were  not  with  the  others,  but  it 
was  easy  enough  to  see  what  those  replies  had 
been.  All  the  passion  of  which  the  woman  had 
been  capable  had  evidently  been  bestowed  upon 
the  writer  of  the  letters  she  had  treasured. 

Her  story  was  quite  plain.  She  had  married 
Newbold  in  a  lit  of  pique.  He  was  an  Eastern 
man,  the  best  educated,  the  most  fascinating  and 
interesting  of  the  men  who  frequented  the  camp. 
There  had  been  a  quarrel  between  the  letter  writer 
and  the  woman,  there  were  always  quarrels,  ap- 
parently, but  this  had  been  a  serious  one  and  the 
man  had  savagely  flung  away  and  left  her.  He 
had  not  come  back  as  he  usually  did.     She  had 

261 


262  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

waited  for  him  and  then  she  had  married  New- 
bold  and  then  he  had  come  back  —  too  late ! 

He  had  wanted  to  kill  the  other,  but  she  had 
prevented,  and  while  Newbold  was  away  he  had 
made  desperate  love  to  her.  He  had  besought 
her  to  leave  her  husband,  to  go  away  with  him. 
He  had  used  every  argument  that  he  could  to 
that  end  and  the  woman  had  hesitated  and  wa- 
vered, but  she  had  not  consented;  she  had  not 
denied  her  love  for  him  any  more  than  she  had 
denied  her  respect  and  a  certain  admiration  for 
her  gallant  trusting  husband.  She  had  refused 
again  and  again  the  requests  of  her  lover.  She 
could  not  control  her  heart,  nevertheless  she  had 
kept  to  her  marriage  vows.  But  the  force  of  her 
resistance  had  grown  weaker  and  she  had  realized 
that  alone  she  would  perhaps  inevitably  succumb. 

Her  lover  had  been  away  when  her  husband 
returned  prior  to  that  last  fateful  journey.  Enid 
Maitland  saw  now  why  she  had  besought  him  to 
take  her  with  him.  She  had  been  afraid  to  be  left 
alone!  She  had  not  dared  to  depend  upon  her 
own  powers  any  more,  her  only  salvation  had  been 
to  go  with  this  man  whom  she  did  not  love,  whom 
at  times  she  almost  hated,  to  keep  from  falling  in- 
to the  arms  of  the  man  she  did  love.  She  had  been 
more  or  less  afraid  of  Newbold.  She  had  soon 
realized,  because  she  was  not  blinded  by  any  pas- 


The  Face  in  the  Locket  263 

sion  as  he,  that  they  had  been  utterly  mismated. 
She  had  come  to  understand  that  when  the  same 
knowledge  of  the  truth  came  to  him,  as  it  In- 
evitably must  some  day,  nothing  but  unhappiness 
would  be  their  portion. 

Every  kind  of  an  argument  in  addition  to  those 
so  passionately  adduced  in  these  letters  urging 
her  to  break  away  from  her  husband  and  to  seek 
happiness  for  herself  while  yet  there  was  time, 
had  besieged  her  heart,  had  seconded  her  lover's 
plea  and  had  assailed  her  will,  and  yet  she  had  not 
given  way. 

Now  Enid  Maitland  hated  the  woman  who  had 
enjoyed  the  first  young  love  of  the  man  she  her- 
self loved.  She  hated  her  because  of  her  priority 
of  possession,  because  her  memory  yet  came  be- 
tween her  and  that  man.  She  hated  her  because 
Newbold  was  still  true  to  her  memory,  because 
Newbold,  believing  in  the  greatness  of  her  pas- 
sion for  him,  thought  It  shame  and  dishonor  to  his 
manhood  to  be  false  to  her,  no  matter  what  love 
and  longing  drew  him  on. 

Yet  there  was  a  stern  sense  of  justice  in  the 
bosom  of  this  young  woman.  She  exulted  in  the 
successful  battle  the  poor  woman  had  waged  for 
the  preservation  of  her  honor  and  her  good  name, 
against  such  odds.  It  was  a  sex  triumph  for 
which  she  was  glad.     She  was  proud  of  her  for 


264         The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  stern  rigor  with  which  she  had  refused  to 
take  the  easiest  way  and  the  desperation  with 
which  she  had  clung  to  him  she  did  not  love,  but 
to  whom  she  was  bound  by  the  laws  of  God  and 
man,  in  order  that  she  might  not  fall  into  the 
arms  of  the  man  she  did  love,  in  defiance  of  right. 

Enid  Maitland  and  this  woman  were  as  far  re- 
moved from  each  other  as  the  opposite  poles  of 
the  earth,  but  there  was  yet  a  common  quality  in 
each  one,  of  virtuous  womanhood,  of  lofty  mor- 
ality. Natural,  perhaps,  in  the  one  and  to  be  ex- 
pected; unnatural,  perhaps,  and  to  be  unexpected 
in  the  other,  but  there!  Now  that  she  knew 
what  love  was  and  what  its  power  and  what  its 
force  —  for  all  that  she  had  felt  and  experienced 
and  dreamed  about  before  were  as  nothing  to 
what  it  was  since  he  had  spoken  —  she  could  un- 
derstand what  the  struggle  must  have  been  in  that 
woman's  heart.  She  could  honor  her,  reverence 
her,  pity  her. 

She  could  understand  the  feeling  of  the  man, 
too,  she  could  think  much  more  clearly  than  he. 
He  was  distracted  by  two  passions,  for  his  pride 
and  his  honor  and  for  her;  she  had  as  yet  but  one, 
for  him.  And  as  there  was  less  turmoil  and  con- 
fusion in  her  mind,  she  was  the  more  capable  of 
looking  the  facts  in  the  face  and  making  the  right 
deduction  from  them. 


The  Face  in  the  Locket  265^ 

She  could  understand  how  In  the  first  frightful 
rush  of  his  grief  and  remorse  and  love  the  very 
fact  that  Newbold  had  been  compelled  to  kill  his 
wife,  of  whom  she  guessed  he  was  beginning  to 
grow  a  little  weary,  under  such  circumstances  had 
added  Immensely  to  his  remorse  and  quickened  his 
determination  to  expiate  his  guilt  and  cherish  her 
memory.  She  could  understand  why  he  would  do 
just  as  he  had  done,  go  into  the  wilderness  to  be 
alone  In  horror  of  himself  and  In  horror  of  his 
fellow  men,  to  think  only,  mistakenly,  of  her. 

Now  he  was  paying  the  penalty  of  that  Isola- 
tion. Men  were  made  to  live  with  one  another, 
and  no  one  could  violate  that  law  natural,  or  by 
so  long  an  Inheritance  as  to  have  so  become,  with- 
out paying  that  penalty.  His  Ideas  of  loyalty 
and  fidelity  were  warped,  his  conceptions  of  his 
duty  were  narrow.  There  was  something  no- 
ble In  his  determination.  It  is  true,  but  there  was 
something  also  very  foolish.  The  dividing  line 
between  wisdom  and  folly  Is  sometimes  as  Indefi- 
nite as  that  between  comedy  and  tragedy,  between 
laughter  and  tears.  If  the  woman  he  had  mar- 
ried and  killed  had  only  hated  him  and  he  had 
known.  It  would  have  been  different,  but  since  he 
believed  so  In  her  love  he  could  do  nothing  else. 

At  that  period  In  her  reflections  Enid  Maltland 
saw  a  great  light.     The  woman  had  not  loved 


266  The  Chalice  op*  Courage 

her  husband  after  all,  she  had  loved  another. 
That  passion  of  which  he  had  dreamed  had  not 
been  for  him.  By  a  strange  chain  of  circum- 
stances Enid  Maitland  held  in  her  hand  the  solu- 
tion of  the  problem.  She  had  but  to  give  him 
these  letters  to  show  him  that  his  golden  image 
had  stood  upon  feet  of  clay,  that  the  love  upon 
which  he  had  dwelt  was  not  his.  Once  convinced 
of  that  he  would  come  quickly  to  her  arms.  She 
cried  a  prayer  of  blessing  on  old  Kirkby  and 
started  to  her  feet,  the  letters  in  hand,  to  call 
Newbold  back  to  her  and  tell  him,  and  then  she 
stopped. 

Woman  as  she  was,  she  had  respect  for  the 
binding  conditions  and  laws  of  honor  as  well  as 
he.  Chance,  nay.  Providence,  had  put  the  honor 
of  this  woman,  her  rival,  in  her  hands.  The 
world  had  long  since  forgotten  this  poor  unfor- 
tunate; in  no  heart  was  her  memory  cherished 
save  in  that  of  her  husband.  His  idea  of  her  was 
a  false  one,  to  be  sure,  but  not  even  to  procure 
her  own  happiness  could  Enid  Maitland  over- 
throw that  ideal,  shatter  that  memory. 

She  sat  down  again  with  the  letters  in  her  hand. 
It  had  been  very  simple  a  moment  since,  but  it 
was  not  so  now.  She  had  but  to  show  him  those 
letters  to  remove  the  great  barrier  between  them. 


The  Face  in  the  Locket  267 

She  could  not  do  it.  It  was  clearly  impossible. 
The  reputation  of  her  dead  sister  who  had  strug- 
gled so  bravely  to  the  end  was  in  her  hands,  she 
could  not  sacrifice  her  even  for  her  own  happiness. 

Quixotic,  you  say?  I  do  not  think  so.  She 
'  had  blundered  unwittingly,  unwillingly,  upon  the 
heart  secret  of  the  other  woman,  she  could  not 
betray  it.  Even  if  the  other  woman  had  been 
really  unfaithful  in  deed  as  well  as  in  thought  to 
her  husband,  Enid  could  hardly  have  destroyed 
his  recollection  of  her.  How  much  more  impos- 
sible it  was  since  the  other  woman  had  fought 
so  heroically  and  so  successfully  for  her  honor. 
Womanhood  demanded  her  silence.  Loyalty, 
honor,  compelled  her  silence. 

A  dead  hand  grasped  his  heart  and  the  same 
dead  hand  grasped  hers.  She  could  see  no  way 
out  of  the  difficulty.  So  far  as  she  knew,  no  hu- 
man soul  except  old  Kirkby  and  herself  knew  this 
woman's  story.  She  could  not  tell  Newbold  and 
she  would  have  to  impose  upon  Kirkby  the  same 
silence  as  she  herself  exercised.  There  was  ab- 
Isolutely  no  way  in  which  the  man  could  find  out. 
He  must  cherish  his  dream  as  he  would.  She 
would  not  enlighten  him,  she  would  not  disabuse 
his  mind,  she  could  not  shatter  his  ideal,  she  could 
not  betray  his  wife.     They  might  love   as  the 


268  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

angels  of  heaven  and  yet  be  kept  forever  apart  — 
by  a  scruple,  an  idea,  a  principle,  an  abstraction, 
honor,  a  name. 

Her  mind  told  her  these  things  were  idle  and 
foolish,  but  her  soul  would  not  hear  of  it  And 
in  spite  of  her  resolutions  she  felt  that  eventually 
there  would  be  some  way.  She  would  not  have 
been  a  human  woman  if  she  had  not  hoped  and 
prayed  that.  She  believed  that  God  had  created 
them  for  each  other,  that  He  had  thrown  them  to- 
gether. She  was  enough  of  a  fatalist  in  this  in- 
stance at  least  to  accept  their  intimacy  as  the  re- 
sult of  His  ordination.  There  must  be  some  way 
out  of  the  dilemma. 

Yet  she  knew  that  he  would  be  true  to  his  be- 
lief, and  she  felt  that  she  would  not  be  false  to  her 
obligation.  What  of  that?  There  would  be 
some  way.  Perhaps  somebody  else  knew,  and 
then  there  flashed  into  her  mind  the  writer  of  the 
letters.  Who  was  he?  Was  he  yet  alive?  Had 
he  any  part  to  play  in  this  strange  tragedy  aside 
from  that  he  had  already  essayed? 

Sometimes  an  answer  to  a  secret  query  Is  made 
openly.  At  this  juncture  Newbold  came  back. 
He  stopped  before  her  unsteadily,  his  face  now 
marked  not  only  by  the  fierceness  of  the  storm 
outside,  but  by  the  fiercer  grapple  of  the  storm  in 
his  heart. 


The  Face  in  the  Locket  269 

"  You  have  a'  right,"  he  began,  "  to  Icnow 
(everything  now.  I  can  withhold  nothing  front 
you." 

He  had  in  his  hand  a  picture  and  something 
yellow  that  gleamed  in  the  light.  "  There,"  he 
continued,  extending  them  toward  her,  "  is  the 
picture  of  the  poor  woman,  who  loved  me  and 
whom  I  killed,  you  saw  it  once  before." 

"  Yes,"  she  nodded,  taking  it  from  him  care- 
fully and  looking  again  in  a  strange  commixture 
of  pride,  resentment  and  pity  at  the  bold,  some- 
what coarse,  entirely  uncultured,  yet  handsome 
face  which  gave  no  evidence  of  the  moral  purpose 
which  she  had  displayed. 

"  And  here,"  said  the  man,  offering  the  other 
article,  "  is  something  that  no  human  eye  but 
mine  has  ever  seen  since  that  day.  It  is  a  locket 
I  took  from  her  neck.  Until  you  came  I  wore  it 
next  my  heart." 

"And  since  then?" 

"  Since  then  I  have  been  unworthy  her  as  I  am 
unworthy  you,  and  I  have  put  it  aside." 

"  Does  it  contain  another  picture?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Of  her?" 

"  A  man's  face." 

"Yours?" 

He  shook  his  head. 


270  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  Look  and  see,"  he  answered.  "  Press  the 
spring." 

Suiting  action  to  word  the  next  second  Enid 
Maitland  found  herself  gazing  upon  the  pictured 
semblance  of  Mr.  James  Armstrong! 

She  was  utterly  unable  to  suppress  an  exclama- 
tion and  a  start  of  surprise  at  the  astonishing  reve- 
lation. The  man  looked  at  her  curiously,  he 
opened  his  mouth  to  question  her,  but  she  recov- 
ered herself  in  part  at  least  and  swiftly  interrupted 
him  in  a  panic  of  terror  lest  she  should  betray  her 
knowledge. 

"  And  what  is  the  picture  of  another  man  do- 
ing in  your  wife's  locket?"  she  asked  to  gain 
time,  for  she  very  well  knew  the  reply;  knew  it, 
indeed,  better  than  Newbold  himself;  who,  as  it 
happened,  was  equally  in  the  dark  both  as  to  the 
man  and  the  reason. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  other. 

"  Did  you  know  this  man?  " 

"  I  never  saw  him  in  my  life  that  I  can  recall." 

"  And  have  you  —  did  you  —  " 

"  Did  I  suspect  my  wife?  "  he  asked.    "Never.  ) 
I  had  too  many  evidences  that  she  loved  me  and 
me  alone  for  a  ghost  of  suspicion  to  enter  my 
mind.     It  may  have  been  a  brother,  or  her  father 
in  his  youth." 

"  And  why  did  you  wear  it?  " 


The  Face  in  the  Locket  271 

"  Because  I  took  It  from  her  dead  heart.  Some 
day  I  shall  find  out  who  the  man  is,  and  when  I 
shall  I  know  there  will  be  nothing  to  her  discredit 
in  the  knowledge."  , 

Enid  Maltland  nodded  her  head.  She  closed 
the  locket,  laid  It  on  the  table  and  pushed  It  away 
from  her.  So  this  was  the  man  the  woman  had 
loved,  who  had  begged  her  to  go  away  with  him, 
this  handsome  Armstrong  who  had  come  within 
an  ace  of  winning  her  own  affection,  to  whom  she 
was  in  some  measure  pledged! 

How  strangely  does  fate  work  out  its  purposes. 
Enid  had  come  from  the  Atlantic  seaboard  to  be 
the  second  woman  that  both  these  two  men  loved  I 

If  she  ever  saw  Mr.  James  Armstrong  again, 
and  she  had  no  doubt  that  she  would,  she  would 
have  some  strange  things  to  say  to  him.  She 
held  in  her  hands  now  all  the  threads  of  the  mys- 
tery, she  was  master  of  all  the  solutions,  and  each 
thread  was  as  a  chain  that  bound  her. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said  at  last  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"  you  must  forget  this  night  and  go  on  as  before. 
You  love  me,  thank  God  for  that,  but  honor  and 
respect  interpose  between  us.  And  I  love  you, 
and  I  thank  God  for  that,  too,  but  for  me  as  well 
the  same  barrier  rises.  Whether  we  shall  ever 
surmount  these  barriers  God  alone  knows.  He 
brought  us  together.   He  put  that  love   in   our 


272  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

hearts,  we  will  have  to  leave  it  to  Him  to  do  as 
He  will  with  us  both.  Meanwhile  we  must  go  on 
as  before.'* 

"  No/'  cried  the  man,  "  you  impose  upon  me 
tasks  beyond  my  strength;  you  don't  know  what 
love  like  mine  is,  you  don't  know  the  heart  hunger, 
the  awful  madness  I  feel.  Think,  I  have  been 
alone  with  a  recollection  for  all  these  years,  a  man 
in  the  dark,  in  the  night,  and  the  light  comes,  you 
are  here.  The  first  night  I  brought  you  here  I 
walked  that  room  on  the  other  side  of  that  nar- 
row door  like  a  lion  pent  up  in  bars  of  steel.  I 
had  only  my  own  love,  my  own  passionate  adora- 
tion to  move  me  then,  but  now  that  I  know  you 
love  me,  that  I  see  it  in  your  eyes,  that  I  hear  it 
from  your  lips,  that  I  mark  it  in  the  beat  of  your 
heart,  can  I  keep  silent?  Can  I  live  on  and  on? 
Can  I  see  you,  touch  you,  breathe  the  same  air 
with  you,  be  shut  up  in  the  same  room  with  you 
hour  after  hour,  day  after  day,  and  go  on  as  be- 
fore? I  can't  do  it;  it  is  an  impossibility.  What 
keeps  me  now  from  taking  you  in  my  arms  and 
from  kissing  the  color  into  your  cheeks,  from  mak- 
ing your  lips  my  own,  from  drinking  the  light  from 
your  eyes?"  He  swayed  near  to  her,  his  voice 
rose,  "  What  restrains  me?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  woman,  never  shrinking 
back  an  inch,  facing  him  with  all  the  courage  and 


The  Face  in  the  Locket  273 

daring  with  which  a  goddess  might  look  upon  a 
man.  "  Nothing  but  my  weakness  and  your 
strength." 

"  Yes,  that's  it;  but  do  not  count  too  much  upon 
the  one  or  the  other.  Great  God,  how  can  I  keep 
away  from  you.  Life  on  the  old  terms  is  insup- 
portable.    I  must  go." 

"And  where?" 

"  Anywhere,  so  it  be  away." 

"And  when?" 

"  Now." 

"  It  would  be  death  in  the  snow  and  in  the 
mountains  to-night.     No,  no,  you  can  not  go." 

"  Well,  to-morrow;  then.  It  will  be  fair,  I  can't 
take  you  with  me,  but  I  must  go  alone  to  the  set- 
tlements, I  must  tell  your  friends  you  are  here, 
alive,  well.  I  shall  find  men  to  come  back  and 
get  you.  What  I  cannot  do  alone  numbers  to- 
gether may  effect.  They  can  carry  you  over  the 
worst  of  the  trails,  you  shall  be  restored  to  your 
people,  to  your  world  again.    You  can  forget  me." 

"  And  do  you  think?  "  asked  the  woman,  "  that 
I  could  ever  forget  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  And  will  you  forget  me?  " 

"  Not  as  long  as  life  throbs  in  my  veins,  and 
beyond." 

"  And  I  too,"  was  the  return. 


274  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  So  be  It.  You  won't  be  afraid  to  stay  here 
alone,  now." 

"  No,  not  since  you  love  me,"  was  the  noble  an- 
swer. "  I  suppose  I  must,  there  Is  no  other  way, 
we  could  not  go  on  as  before.  And  you  will  come 
back  to  me  as  quickly  as  you  can  with  the  oth- 
ers?" 

"  I  shall  not  come  back.  I  will  give  them  the 
direction,  they  can  find  you  without  me.  When 
I  say  good-by  to  you  to-morrow  it  shall  be  for- 


ever." 


"  And  I  swear  to  you,"  asserted  the  woman  in 
quick  desperation,  "  If  you  do  not  come  back,  they 
shall  have  nothing  to  carry  from  here  but  my  dead 
body.  You  do  not  alone  know  what  love  Is,"  she 
cried  resolutely,  *'  and  I  will  not  let  you  go  unless 
I  have  your  word  to  return." 

"  And  how  will  you  prevent  my  going?  " 

"  I  can't.  But  I  will  follow  you  on  my  hands 
and  knees  In  the  snow  until  I  freeze  and  die  unless 
I  have  your  promise." 

"  You  have  beaten  me,"  said  the  man  hope- 
lessly. "You  always  do.  Honor,  what  Is  It? 
Pride,  what  Is  It?  Self  respect,  what  Is  It?  Say 
the  word  and  I  am  at  your  feet,  I  put  the  past  be- 
hind me." 

"  I  don't  say  the  word,"  answered  the  woman 
bravely,   white   faced,   pale  lipped,   but   resolute. 


The  Face  in  the  Locket         2175 

"  To  be  yours,  to  have  you  mine,  is  the  greatest 
desire  of  my  heart,  but  not  in  the  coward's  way, 
not  at  the  expense  of  honor,  of  self  respect  —  no 
not  that  way.  Courage,  my  friend,  God  will 
show  us  the  way,  and  meantime  good  night." 

"  I  shall  start  in  the  morning." 

"  Yes,"  she  nodded  reluctantly  but  knowing  it 
had  to  be,  "  but  you  won't  go  without  bidding  me 
good-bye." 

"  No." 

"Good  night  then,"  she  said  extending  her 
hand. 

**  Good  night,"  he  whispered  hoarsely  and  re- 
fused it  backing  away.  "  I  don't  dare  to  take  it. 
I  don't  dare  to  touch  you  again.  I  love  you  so, 
my  only  salvation  h  to  keep  away." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  STRENGTH  OF  THE  WEAK 

Although  Enid  Maitland  had  spoken  bravely 
enough  while  he  was  there,  when  she  was  alone 
her  heart  sank  into  the  depths  as  she  contem- 
plated the  dreadful  and  unsolvable  dilemma  In 
which  these  two  lovers  found  themselves  so  un- 
wittingly and  Inextricably  involved.  It  was  In- 
deed a  curious  and  bewildering  situation.  Pas- 
sionate adoration  for  the  other  rose  In  each  breast 
like  the  surging  tide  of  a  mighty  sea  and  like  that 
tide  upon  the  shore  It  broke  upon  conventions, 
Ideas,  Ideals  and  obligations  Intangible  to  the 
naked  eye  but  as  real  as  those  Iron  coasts  that 
have  withstood  the  waves'  assaults  since  the 
world's  morning. 

The  man  had  shaped  his  life  upon  a  mistake. 
He  believed  absolutely  In  the  unquestioned  de- 
votion of  a  woman  to  whom  he  had  been  forced 
to  mete  out  death  In  an  unprecedented  and  terri- 
ble manner.  His  unwillingness  to  derogate  by 
his  own  conduct  from  the  standard  of  devotion 
which  he  believed  had  inhabited  his  wife's  bosom, 
made  It  Impossible  for  him  to  allow  the  real  love 

276 


The  Strength  of  the  Weak       277 

that  Had  come  into  his  heart  for  this  new  woman 
to  have  free  course ;  honor,  pride  and  self  respect 
scourged  him  just  in  proportion  to  his  passion  for 
Enid  Maitland. 

The  more  he  loved  her,  the  more  ashamed  he 
was.  By  a  curious  combination  of  circumstances, 
Enid  Maitland  knew  the  truth,  she  knew  that 
from  one  point  of  view  the  woman  had  been  en- 
tirely unworthy  the  reverence  in  which  her  hus- 
band held  her  memory.  She  knew  that  his  wife 
had  not  loved  him  at  all,  that  her  whole  heart  had 
been  given  to  another  man,  that  what  Newbold 
had  mistaken  for  a  passionate  desire  for  his  soci- 
ety because  there  was  no  satisfaction  in  life  for  the 
wife  away  from  him  was  due  to  a  fear  lest  with- 
out his  protection  she  should  be  unable  to  resist 
the  appeal  of  the  other  man  which  her  heart  sec- 
onded so  powerfully.  If  it  were  only  that  New- 
bold  would  not  be  false  to  the  obligation  of  the 
other  woman's  devotion,  Enid  might  have  solved 
the  problem  in  a  moment. 

It  was  not  so  simple,  however.  The  fact  that 
Newbold  cherished  this  memory,  the  fact  that 
this  other  woman  had  fought  so  desperately,  had 
tried  so  hard  not  to  give  way,  entitled  her  to  Enid 
Maitland's  admiration  and  demanded  her  highest 
consideration  as  well.  Chance,  or  Providence, 
had  put  her  in  possession  of  this  woman's  secret. 


278  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

It  was  as  If  she  had  been  caught  inadvertently 
eavesdropping.  She  could  not  In  honor  make  use 
of  what  she  had  overheard,  as  It  were;  she  could 
not  blacken  the  other  woman's  memory,  she  could 
not  enlighten  this  man  at  the  expense  of  his  dead 
wife's  reputation. 

Although  she  longed  for  him  as  much  as  he 
longed  for  her,  although  her  love  for  him  amazed 
her  by  Its  depth  and  Intensity,  even  to  bring  her 
happiness  commensurate  with  her  feelings  she 
could  not  betray  her  dead  sister.  The  imposts 
of  honor,  how  hard  they  are  to  sustain  when  they 
conflict  with  love  and  longing. 

Enid  Maitland  was  naturally  not  a  little  thrown 
off  her  balance  by  the  situation  and  the  power 
that  v/as  hers.  What  she  could  not  do  herself 
she  could  not  allow  anyone  else  to  do.  The  obli- 
gation upon  her  must  be  extended  to  others.  Old 
Kirkby  had  no  right  to  the  woman's  secret  any 
more  than  she,  he  must  be  silenced.  Armstrong, 
the  only  other  being  privy  to  the  truth,  must 
be  silenced  too. 

One  thing  at  least  arose  out  of  the  sea  of 
trouble  in  a  tangible  way,  she  was  done  with  Arm- 
strong. Even  if  she  had  not  so  loved  New- 
bold  that  she  could  scarcely  give  a  thought  to 
any  other  human  being,  she  was  done  with  Arm- 
strong. 


The  Strength  of  the  Weak       279; 

A  singular  situation !  Armstrong  had  loved  an- 
other woman,  so  had  Newbold,  and  the  latter  had 
even  married  this  other  woman,  yet  she  was  quite 
willing  to  forgive  Newbold,  she  made  every  ex- 
cuse for  him,  she  made  none  for  Armstrong.  She 
was  an  eminently  sane,  just  person,  yet  as  she 
thought  of  the  situation  her  anger  against  Arm- 
strong grew  hotter  and  hotter.  It  was  a  safety 
valve  to  her  feelings,  although  she  did  not  realize 
It.  After  all,  Armstrong's  actions  rendered  her  a 
certain  service;  If  she  could  get  over  the  objection 
in  her  soul.  If  she  could  ever  satisfy  her  sense  of 
honor  and  duty,  and  obligation,  she  could  settle 
the  question  at  once.  She  had  only  to  show  the 
letters  to  Newbold  and  to  say,  "  These  were  writ- 
ten by  the  man  of  the  picture;  It  was  he  and  not 
you  your  wife  loved,"  and  Newbold  would  take 
her  to  his  heart  instantly. 

These  thoughts  were  not  without  a  certain  com- 
fort to  her.  All  the  compensation  of  self-sacri- 
fice is  in  its  realization.  That  she  could  do  and 
yet  did  not  somehow  ennobled  her  love  for  him. 
Even  women  are  alloyed  with  base  metal.  In  the 
powerful  and  universal  appeal  of  this  man  to  her, 
she  rejoiced  at  whatever  was  of  the  soul  rather 
than  of  the  body.  To  possess  power,  to  refrain 
from  using  it  in  obedience  to  some  higher  law  is 
perhaps  to  pay  oneself  the  most  flattering  of  com- 


28o  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

pliments.  There  was  a  satisfaction  to  her  soul  In 
this  which  was  yet  denied  him. 

Her  action  was  quite  different  from  his.  She 
was  putting  away  happiness  which  she  might  have 
had  In  compliance  with  a  higher  law  than  that 
which  bids  humanity  enjoy.  It  was  flattering  to 
her  mind.  In  his  case  It  was  otherwise :  he  had  no 
consciousness  that  he  was  a  victim  of  misplaced 
trust,  of  misinterpreted  action;  he  thought  the 
woman  for  whom  he  was  putting  away  happiness 
was  almost  as  worthy,  If  Infinitely  less  desirable, 
as  the  woman  whom  he  now  loved. 

Every  sting  of  conscious  weakness,  every  feel- 
ing of  realized  shame,  every  fear  of  ultimate  dis- 
loyalty, scourged  him.  She  could  glory  in  it;  he 
was  ashamed,  humiliated,  broken. 

She  heard  him  savagely  walking  up  and  down 
the  other  room,  restlessly  Impelled  by  the  same 
Erinnyes  who  of  old  scourged  Orestes,  the  vlo- 
later  of  the  laws  of  moral  being,  drove  him  on. 
These  malign  Eumenides  held  him  In  their  hands. 
He  was  bound  and  helpless;  rage  as  he  might  in 
one  moment,  pray  as  he  did  In  another,  no  light 
came  Into  the  whirling  darkness  of  his  torn,  tem- 
pest tossed,  driven  soul.  The  irresistible  Impulse 
and  the  Immovable  body  the  philosophers  puz- 
zled over  were  exemplified  in  him.  While  he 
almost  hated  the  new  woman,  while  he  almost 


The  Strength  of  the  Weak       281 

loved  the  old,  yet  that  he  did  neither  the  one  thing 
nor  the  other  absolutely  was  significant. 

Indeed  he  knew  that  he  was  glad  Enid  Mait- 
land  had  come  Into  his  life.  No  life  is  complete 
until  it  is  touched  by  that  divine  fire  which  for 
lack  of  another  name  we  call  love.  Because  we 
can  experience  that  sensation  we  are  said  to  be 
made  in  God's  image.  The  image  is  blurred  as 
the  animal  predominates,  it  is  clearer  as  the  spirit- 
ual has  the  ascendency. 

The  man  raved  in  his  mind.  White  faced, 
stern,  he  walked  up  and  down,  he  tossed  his  arms 
about  him,  he  stopped,  his  eyes  closed,  he  threw 
his  hands  up  toward  God,  his  heart  cried  out  un- 
der the  lacerations  of  the  blows  inflicted  upon  it. 
No  flagellant  of  old  ever  trembled  beneath  the 
body  lash  as  he  under  the  spiritual  punishment. 

He  prayed  that  he  might  die  at  the  same  mo- 
ment that  he  longed  to  live.  He  grappled  blindly 
for  solutions  of  the  problem  that  would  leave 
him  with  untarnished  honor  and  undiminished 
self-respect  and  fidelity,  and  yet  give  him  this 
woman;  and  in  vain.  He  strove  to  find  a  way  to 
reconcile  the  past  with  the  present,  realizing  as 
he  did  so  the  futility  of  such  a  proposition.  One 
or  the  other  must  be  supreme ;  he  must  inexorably 
hold  to  his  ideas  and  his  Ideals,  or  he  must  inevi- 
tably take  the  woman. 


282  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

How  frightful  was  the  battle  that  raged 
within  his  bosom.  Sometimes  In  his  despair  he 
thought  that  he  would  have  been  glad  If  he  and 
she  had  gone  down  together  In  the  dark  waters 
before  all  this  came  upon  him.  The  floods  of 
v/hlch  the  heavens  had  emptied  themselves  had 
borne  her  to  him.  Oh,  If  they  had  only  swept 
him  out  of  life  with  Its  trouble,  Its  trials.  Its  anxie- 
ties. Its  obligations,  Its  Impossibilities!  If  they 
had  gone  together!  And  then  he  knew  that  he 
was  glad  even  for  the  torture,  because  he  had 
seen  her,  because  he  had  loved  her,  and  because 
she  had  loved  him. 

He  marveled  at  himself  curiously  and  In  a  de- 
tached way.  There  was  a  woman  who  loved  him, 
who  had  confessed  It  boldly  and  Innocently;  there 
were  none  to  say  him  nay.  The  woman  who 
stood  between  had  been  dead  five  years,  the  world 
knew  nothing,  cared  nothing;  they  could  go  out 
together,  he  could  take  her,  she  would  come. 
On  the  Impulse  he  turned  and  ran  to  the  door  and 
beat  upon  It.  Her  voice  bade  him  enter  and  he 
came  In. 

Her  heart  yearned  to  him.  She  was  shocked, 
appalled,  at  the  torture  she  saw  upon  his  face. 
Had  he  been  laid  upon  the  rack  and  every  joint 
pulled  from  Its  sockets,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  white  and  agonized. 


The  Strength  of  the  Weak       283; 

"  I  give  up,"  he  cried.  "  What  are  honor  and 
self-respect  to  me?  I  want  you.  I  have  put  the 
past  behind.  You  love  me,  and  I,  I  am  yours 
with  every  fiber  of  my  being.  Great  God !  Let 
us  cast  aside  these  foolish  quixotic  scruples  that 
have  kept  us  apart.  If  a  man's  thoughts  declare 
his  guilt  I  am  already  disloyal  to  the  other 
woman;  deeply,  entirely  so.  I  have  betrayed  her, 
shamed  her,  abandoned  her.  Let  me  have  some 
compensation  for  what  I  have  gone  through.  .You 
love  me,  come  to  me.'* 

"  No,"  answered  the  woman,  and  no  task  ever 
laid  upon  her  had  been  harder  than  that.  "  I  do 
love  you,  I  will  not  deny  it,  every  part  of  me 
responds  to  your  appeal.  I  should  be  so  happy 
that  I  cannot  even  think  of  it,  if  I  could  put  my 
hand  in  your  own,  if  I  could  lay  my  head  upon 
your  shoulder,  if  I  could  feel  your  heart  beat 
against  mine,  if  I  could  give  myself  up  to  you,  I 
would  be  so  glad,  so  glad.     But  it  can  not  be,  not 


now." 


"  Why  not?  "  pleaded  the  man. 

He  was  by  her  side,  his  arm  went  around  her. 
She  did  not  resist  physically,  it  would  have  been 
useless;  she  only  laid  her  slender  hand  upon  his 
broad  breast  and  threw  her  head  back  and  looked 
at  him. 

"  See,"  she  said,  "  how  helpless  I  am,  how  weak 


284  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

in  your  hands  ?  Every  voice  in  my  heart  bids  me 
give  way.  If  you  insist  I  can  deny  you  nothing. 
I  am  helpless,  alone,  but  It  must  not  be.  I  know 
you  better  than  you  know  yourself,  you  will  not 
take  advantage  of  affection  so  unbounded,  of 
weakness  so  pitiable." 

Was  It  the  wisdom  of  calculation,  or  was  It  the 
wisdom  of  Instinct  by  which  she  chose  her  course? 
Resistance  would  have  been  unavailing,  In  weak- 
ness was  her  strength. 

Blessed  are  the  meek,  for  they  shall  inherit  the 
earth! 

Yes,  that  was  true.  She  knew  It  now  if  never 
before,  and  so  did  he. 

Slowly  the  man  released  her.  She  did  not  even 
then  draw  away  from  him;  she  stood  with  her 
hand  still  on  his  breast,  she  could  feel  the  beating 
of  his  heart  beneath  her  fingers. 

"  I  am  right,"  she  said  softly.  "  It  kills  me 
to  deny  you  anything,  my  heart  yearns  toward 
you,  why  should  I  deny  It,  It  Is  my  glory  not  my 
shame." 

"  There  Is  nothing  above  love  like  ours,"  he 
pleaded,  wondering  what  marvelous  mastery  she 
exercised  that  she  stopped  him  by  a  hand's  touch, 
a  whispered  word,  a  faith. 

"No;  love  Is  life,  love  Is  God,  but  even  God 
Himself   Is   under   obligations   of   righteousness. 


The  Strength  of  the  Weak       285 

For  me  to  come  to  you  now,  to  marry  you  now,  to 
be  your  wife,  would  be  unholy.  There  would  not 
be  that  perfect  confidence  between  us  that  must 
endure  in  that  relation.  Your  honor  and  mine, 
3^our  self-respect  and  mine  would  Interpose.  If 
I  can't  have  you  with  a  clear  conscience,  if  you 
can't  come  to  me  in  the  same  way,  we  are  better 
apart.  Although  It  kills  me,  although  life  with- 
out you  seems  nothing  and  I  would  rather  not  live 
it,  we  are  better  apart.  I  cannot  be  your  wife 
until — '' 

"Until  what  and  until  when?"  demanded 
Newbold. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  woman,  "  but  I  be- 
lieve that  somewhere,  somehow,  we  shall  find  a 
way  out  of  our  difficulty.  There  is  a  way,"  she 
said  a  little  incautiously,  "  I  know  it." 

"  Show  it  to  me." 

"  No,  I  can  not." 

"What  prevents?" 

*"  The  same  thing  which  prevents  you,  honor, 
Joyalty." 
\      "To  a  man?" 

"  To  a  woman." 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  No,  but  you  will  some  day,"  she  smiled  at 
him.  "  See,"  she  said,  "  through  my  tears  I  can 
smile  at  you,   though  my  heart  is  breaking.     Ij 


286  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

know  that  In  God's  good  time  this  will  work  it- 
self out." 

"  I  can't  wait  for  God,  I  want  you  now,"  per- 
sisted the  other. 

"  Hush,  don't  say  that,"  answered  the  woman, 
for  a  moment  laying  her  hand  on  his  lips.  "  But 
I  forgive  you,  I  know  how  you  suffer." 

The  man  could  say  nothing,  do  nothing.  He 
stared  at  her  a  moment  and  his  hand  went  to  his 
throat  as  if  he  were  choking. 

"  Unworthy,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  unworthy  of 
the  past,  unworthy  of  the  present,  unworthy  of  the 
future.     May  God  forgive  me,  I  never  can." 

"  He  will  forgive  you,  never  fear,"  answered 
Enid  gently. 

"  And  you?  "  asked  her  lover.  "  I  have  ruined 
your  life." 

**  No,  you  have  ennobled  it.  Let  nothing  ever 
make  you  forget  that.  Wherever  you  are  and 
whatever  you  do  and  whatever  you  may  have 
been,  I  love  you  and  I  shall  love  you  to  the  end. 
Now  you  must  go,  it  Is  so  late,  I  can't  stand  any 
more.  I  throw  myself  on  your  mercy  again.  I 
grow  weaker  and  weaker  before  you.  As  you  are 
a  man,  as  you  are  stronger,  save  me  from  myself. 
If  you  were  to  take  me  again  in  your  arms,"  she 
went  on  steadily,  "  I  know  not  how  I  could  drive 
you  back.     For  God's  sake,  if  you  love  me  —  " 


The  Strength  of  the  Weak       287 

That  was  the  hardest  thing  he  had  ever  done, 
to  turn  and  go  out  of  the  room,  out  of  her  sight 
and  leave  her  standing  there  with  eyes  shining, 
with  pulses  throbbing,  with  breath  coming  fast, 
with  bosom  panting.  Once  more,  and  at  a  touch 
she  might  have  yielded  I 


BOOK  V 
THE   CUP  IS  DRAINED 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  CHALLENGE  OF  THE  RANGE 

Mr.  James  Armstrong  sat  at  his  desk  before 
the  west  window  of  his  private  room  in  one  of 
the  tallest  buildings  in  Denver.  His  suite  of  of- 
fices was  situated  on  one  of  the  top  floors  and 
from  it  over  the  intervening  house  tops  and  other 
buildings,  he  had  a  clear  and  unobstructed  view  of 
the  mighty  range.  The  earth  was  covered  with 
snow.  It  had  fallen  steadily  through  the  night 
but  with  the  dawn  the  air  had  cleared  and  the 
sun  had  come  out  brightly  although  it  was  very 
cold. 

Letters,  papers,  documents,  the  demands  of  a 
business  extensive  and  varied,  were  left  unnoticed. 
He  sat  with  his  elbow  on  the  desk  and  his  head 
on  his  hand,  looking  moodily  at  the  range.  In 
the  month  that  had  elapsed  since  he  had  received 
news  of  Enid  Maltland's  disappearance  he  had 
sat  often  in  that  way,  in  that  place,  staring  at 
the  range,  a  prey  to  most  despondent  reflections, 
heavy  hearted  and  disconsolate  Indeed. 

After  that  memorable  interview  with  Mr. 
Stephen  Maitland  in  Philadelphia  he  had  deemed 

291 


a^i         The  Chalice  of  Courage 

It  proper  to  await  there  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Rob- 
ert Maltland.  A  brief  conversation  with  that  dis- 
tracted gentleman  had  put  him  in  possession  of 
all  the  facts  in  the  case.  As  Robert  Maitland 
had  said,  after  his  presentation  of  the  tragic 
story,  the  situation  was  quite  hopeless.  Even 
Armstrong  reluctantly  admitted  that  her  uncle 
and  old  Kirkby  had  done  everything  that  was 
possible  for  the  rescue  or  discovery  of  the  girl. 

Therefore  the  two  despondent  gentlemen  had 
shortly  after  returned  to  their  western  homes, 
Robert  Maitland  in  this  instance  being  accom- 
panied by  his  brother  Stephen.  The  latter  never 
knew  how  much  his  daughter  had  been  to  him  un- 
til this  evil  fate  had  befallen  her.  Robert  Mait- 
land had  promised  to  inaugurate  a  thorough  and 
extensive  search  to  solve  the  mystery  of  her 
death,  which  he  felt  was  certain,  in  the  spring 
when  the  weather  permitted  humanity  to  have  free 
course  through  the  mountains. 

Mr.  Stephen  Maitland  found  a  certain  melan- 
choly satisfaction  in  being  at  least  near  the  place 
where  neither  he  nor  anyone  had  any  doubt  his 
daughter's  remains  lay  hid  beneath  the  snow  or 
ice  on  the  mountains  in  the  freezing  cold.  Rob- 
ert Maitland  had  no  other  idea  than  that  Enid's 
body  was  in  the  lake.  He  intended  to  drain  It 
—  an  engineering  task  of  no  great  difficulty  — 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range     293 

and  yet  he  intended  also  to  search  the  hills  for 
miles  on  either  side  of  the  main  stream  down 
:which  she  had  gone ;  for  she  might  possibly  have 
strayed  away  and  died  of  starvation  and  exposure 
rather  than  drowning.  At  any  rate  he  would 
leave  nothing  undone  to  discover  her. 

He  had  strenuously  opposed  Armstrong's  reck- 
lessly expressed  Intention  of  going  into  the  moun- 
tains immediately  to  search  for  her.  Armstrong 
was  not  easily  moved  from  any  purpose  he  once 
entertained  or  lightly  to  be  hindered  from  at- 
tempting any  enterprise  that  he  projected,  but  by 
the  time  the  party  reached  Denver  the  winter  had 
set  In  and  even  he  realized  the  futility  of  any  im- 
mediate search  for  a  dead  body  lost  In  the  moun- 
tains. Admitting  that  Enid  was  dead  the 
conclusions  were  sound  of  course. 

The  others  pointed  out  to  Armstrong  that  if 
the  woman  they  all  loved  had  by  any  fortunate 
chance  escaped  the  cloud  burst  she  must  Inevitably 
have  perished  from  cold,  starvation  and  exposure 
in  the  mountain  long  since.  There  v/as  scarcely 
a  possibility  that  she  could  have  escaped  the  flood, 
but  If  she  had  It  would  only  to  be  devoted  to  death 
a  little  later.  If  she  was  not  in  the  lake  what 
remained  of  her  would  be  In  some  lateral  canon. 
It  would  be  impossible  to  discover  her  body  in 
the  deep  snows  until  the  spring  and  the  warm 


294  The  Chalice  oe  Courage 

weatHer  came.  When  the  snows  melted  what 
was  concealed  would  be  revealed.  Alone,  she 
could  do  nothing.  And  admitting  again  that 
Enid  was  alone  this  conclusion  was  as  sound  as 
the  other. 

Now  no  one  had  the  faintest  hope  that  Enid 
Maitland  was  yet  alive  except  perhaps  her 
father,  Mr.  Stephen  Maitland.  They  could  not 
convince  him,  he  was  so  old  and  set  in  his  opin- 
ions and  so  utterly  unfamiliar  with  the  conditions 
that  they  tried  to  describe  to  him,  that  he  clung 
to  his  belief  in  spite  of  all,  and  finally  they  let 
him  take  such  comfort  as  he  could  from  his  vain 
hope  without  any  further  attempt  at  contradic- 
tion. 

In  spite  of  all  the  arguments,  however,  Mr. 
James  Armstrong  was  not  satisfied.  He  was  as 
hopeless  as  the  rest,  but  his  temperament  would 
not  permit  him  to  accept  the  inevitable  calmly. 
It  was  barely  possible  that  she  might  not  be  dead 
and  that  she  might  not  be  alone.  There  was 
scarcely  enough  possibility  of  this  to  justify  a  sus- 
picion, but  that  is  not  saying  there  was  none  at 
all. 

Day  after  day  he  had  sat  in  his  office  denying 
himself  to  everyone  and  refusing  to  consider  any- 
thing,  brooding  over  the   situation.     He   loved 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range  295 

Enid  Maltland,  he  loved  her  before  and  now  that 
he  had  lost  her  he  loved  her  still  more. 

Not  altogether  admirable  had  been  James 
Armstrong's  outwardly  successful  career.  In 
much  that  is  high  and  noble  and  manly  his  ac- 
tions — •  and  his  character  —  had  often  been  lack- 
ing, but  even  the  base  can  love  and  sometimes 
love  transforms  if  It  be  given  a  chance.  The 
passion  of  Cymon  for  Iphigenia,  made  a  man  and 
prince  out  of  the  rustic  boor.  His  real  love  for 
Enid  Maitland  might  have  done  more  for  Arm- 
strong than  he  himself  or  anyone  who  knew  him  as 
he  was  —  and  few  there  were  who  had  such  knowl- 
edge of  him  —  dreamed  was  possible.  There  was 
one  thing  that  love  could  not  do,  however ;  it  could 
not  make  him  a  patient  philosopher,  a  good 
waiter.  His  rule  of  life  was  not  very  high,  but 
in  one  way  it  was  admirable  in  that  prompt  bold 
decisive  action  was  its  chiefest  characteristic. 

On  this  certain  morning  a  month  after  the 
heart  breaking  disaster  his  power  of  passive  en- 
durance had  been  strained  to  the  vanishing  point. 
The  great  white  range  was  flung  in  his  face  like 
a  challenge.  Within  its  secret  recesses  lay  the 
solution  of  the  mystery.  Somewhere,  dead  or 
alive,  beyond  the  soaring  rampart  was  the  woman 
he  loved.     It  was  impossible  for  him  to  remain 


2g6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

quiet  any  longer.  Common  sense,  reason,  every 
argument  that  had  been  adduced,  suddenly  be- 
came of  no  weight.  He  lifted  his  head  and 
stared  straight  westward.  His  eyes  swept  the  long 
semi-circle  of  the  horizon  across  which  the  mighty 
range  was  drawn  like  the  chord  of  a  gigantic  arc 
or  the  string  of  a  mighty  bow.  Each  white  peak 
mocked  him,  the  insolent  aggression  of  the  range 
called  him  irresistibly  to  action. 

"  By  God,''  he  said  under  his  breath,  rising  to 
his  feet,  "  winter  or  no  winter,  I  go." 

Robert  Maitland  had  offices  in  the  same  build- 
ing. Having  once  come  to  a  final  determination 
there  was  no  more  uncertainty  or  hesitation  about 
Armstrong's  course.  In  another  moment  he  was 
standing  in  the  private  room  of  his  friend.  The 
two  men  were  not  alone  there.  Stephen  Mait- 
land sat  in  a  low  chair  before  another  window 
removed  from  the  desk  somewhat,  staring  out 
at  the  range.  The  old  man  was  huddled  down 
in  his  seat,  every  line  of  his  figure  spoke  of  grief 
and  despair.  Of  all  the  places  in  Denver  he 
liked  best  his  brother's  office  fronting  the  ram- 
part of  the  mountains,  and  hour  after  hour  he  sat 
there  quietly  looking  at  the  summits,  sometimes 
softly  shrouded  in  white,  sometimes  swept  bare 
by  the  fierce  winter  gales  that  blew  across  them, 
sometimes  shining  and  sparkling  so  that  the  eye 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range      297] 

could  scarce  sustain  their  reflection  of  the  dazzling 
sun  of  Colorado;  and  at  other  times  seen  dimly; 
through  mists  of  whirling  snow. 

Oh,  yes,  the  mountains  challenged  him  also  to 
the  other  side  of  the  range.  His  heart  yearned 
for  his  child,  but  he  was  too  old  to  make  the  at- 
tempt. He  could  only  sit  and  pray  and  wait 
with  such  faint  and  fading  hope  as  he  could  still 
cherish  until  the  break  up  of  the  spring  came. 
For  the  rest  he  troubled  nobody;  nobody  noticed 
him,  nobody  marked  him,  nobody  minded  him. 
Robert  Maitland  transacted  his  business  a  little 
more  softly,  a  little  more  gently,  that  was  all. 
Yet  the  presence  of  his  brother  was  a  living  grief 
and  a  living  reproach  to  him.  Although  he  was 
quite  blameless  he  blamed  himself.  He  did  not 
know  how  much  he  had  grown  to  love  his  niece 
until  he  had  lost  her.  His  conscience  accused  him 
hourly,  and  yet  he  knew  not  where  he  was  at 
fault  or  how  he  could  have  done  differently.  It 
was  a  helpless  and  hopeless  situation.  To  him, 
therefore,  entered  Armstrong. 

"  Maitland,"  he  began,  **  I  can't  stand  it  any 
longer,  I'm  going  into  the  mountains." 

"You  are  mad!" 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  sit  Here  and  face  them, 
'damn  them,  and  remain  quiet." 

"  You  will  never  come  out  alive." 


298  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  Oh,  yes  I  will,  but  if  I  don't  I  swear  to  God 
I  don't  care." 

Old  Stephen  Maitland  rose  unsteadily  to  his 
feet  and  gripped  the  back  of  his  chair. 

**  Did  I  hear  aright,  sir?"  he  asked  with  all 
the  polished  and  graceful  courtesy  of  birth  and 
breeding  which  never  deserted  him  In  any  emer- 
gency whatsoever.     "Do  you  say  —  " 

"  I  said  I  was  going  into  the  mountains  to 
search  for  her." 

"  It  is  madness,"  urged  Robert  Maitland. 

But  the  old  man  did  not  hear  him. 

"  Thank  God !  "  he  exclaimed  with  deep  feel- 
ing. "  I  have  sat  here  day  after  day  and  watched 
those  mighty  hills,  and  I  have  said  to  myself  that 
if  I  had  youth  and  strength  as  I  have  love,  I 
would  not  wait." 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  Armstrong,  equally 
moved,  and  indeed  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
have  heard  and  seen  that  father  unresponsively, 
"  and  I  am  not  going  to  wait  either." 

"  I  understand  your  feeling,  Jim,  and  yours  too, 
Steve,"  began  Robert  Maitland,  arguing  against 
his  own  emotions,  "  but  even  If  she  escaped  the 
flood,  she  must  be  dead  by  this  time." 

"  You  needn't  go  over  the  old  arguments.  Bob. 
I'm  going  into  the  mountains  and  I'm  going  now. 
No,"  he  continued  swiftly,  as  the  other  opened  his 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range     299 

mouth  to  interpose  further  objections,  "you 
needn't  say  another  word.  I'm  a  free  agent  and 
I'm  old  enough  to  decide  what  I  can  do.  There 
is  no  argument,  there  is  no  force,  there  is  no  ap- 
peal, there  is  nothing  that  will  restrain  me.  I 
can't  sit  here  and  eat  my  heart  out  when  she  may 
be  there." 

"  But  it's  impossible  I  " 

"  It  isn't  impossible.  How  do  I  know  that 
there  may  not  have  been  somebody  in  the  moun- 
tains, she  may  have  wandered  to  some  settlement, 
some  hunter's  cabin,  some  prospector's  hut." 

**  But  we  were  there  for  weeks  and  saw  noth- 
ing, no  evidence  of  humanity." 

"  I  don't  care.  The  mountains  are  filled  with 
secret  nooks  you  could  pass  by  within  a  stone's 
throw  and  never  see  into,  she  may  be  in  one  of 
them.  I  suppose  she  is  dead  and  it's  all  foolish, 
this  hope,  but  I'll  never  believe  it  until  I  have 
examined  every  square  rod  within  a  radius  of 
fifty  miles  from  your  camp.  I'll  take  the  long 
chance,  the  longest  even." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  said  Robert  Mait- 
land.  "  Of  course  I  intend  to  do  that  as  soon  as 
the  spring  opens,  but  what's  the  use  of  trying  to 
do  it  now?" 

"  It's  use  to  me.  I'll  either  go  mad  here  in 
Denver,  or  I  must  go  to  seek  for  her  there." 


30O  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  But  yoo  will  never  come  back  If  you  once  get 
in  those  mountains  alone." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  I  do  or  not.  It's  no 
use,  old  man,  I  am  going  and  that's  all  there  is 
about  it." 

Robert  Maitland  knew  men,  Ke  recognized 
finality  when  he  heard  It  or  when  he  saw  it  and 
it  was  quite  evident  that  he  was  in  the  presence 
of  it  then.  It  was  of  no  use  for  him  or  anyone 
to  say  more. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  "  I  honor  you  for  your 
feeling  even  if  I  don't  think  much  of  your  com- 
mon sense." 

"  Damn  common  sense,*'  cried  'Armstrong  tri- 
umphantly, **  It's  love  that  moves  me  now." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  tap  on  the  door. 
A  clerk  from  an  outer  office  bidden  to  enter 
announced  that  old  Kirkby  was  in  the  ante- 
room. 

"  Bring  him  in,"  directed  Maitland,  eager  to 
welcome  him. 

He  fancied  that  the  new  comer  would  undoubt- 
edly assist  him  in  dissuading  Armstrong  from  his 
foolhardy,  useless  enterprise. 

"  Mornin',      old     man,"      drawled      Kirkby. 

"  Howdy,  Armstrong.  My  respects  to  you,  sir," 
he  said,  sinking  his  voice  a  little  as  he  bowed  re- 
spectfully toward  Mr.  Stephen  Maitland,  a  very 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range  301 

sympathetic  look  in  the  old  frontiersman's  eyes 
at  the  sight  of  the  bereaved  father. 

**  KIrkby,  youVe  come  in  the  very  nick  of 
time,"  at  once  began  Robert  Maitland. 

"Alius  glad  to  be  Johnny-on-the-spot,"  smiled 
the  older  man. 

"  Armstrong  here,"  continued  the  other  intent 
upon  his  purpose,  "  says  he  can't  wait  until  the 
spring  and  the  snows  melt,  he  is  going  Into  the 
mountains  now  to  look  for  Enid." 

KIrkby  did  not  love  Armstrong,  he  did  not  care 
for  him  a  little  bit,  but  there  was  something  in  the 
bold  hardihood  of  the  man,  something  in  the  way 
which  he  met  the  reckless  challenge  of  the  moun- 
tains that  the  old  man  and  all  the  others  felt  that 
moved  the  inmost  soul  of  the  hardy  frontiersman. 
He  threw  an  approving  glance  at  him. 

"  I  tell  him  that  It  Is  absurd.  Impossible;  that 
he  risks  his  life  for  nothing,  and  I  want  you  to 
tell  him  the  same  thing.  You  know  more  about 
the  mountains  than  either  of  us." 

"  Mr.  KIrkby,"  quavered  Stephen  Maitland, 
"  allow  me.  I  don't  want  to  influence  you  against 
your  better  judgment,  but  If  you  could  sit  here  as 
I  have  done  and  think  that  maybe  she  Is  there 
and  perhaps  alive  still,  and  In  need,  you  would  not 
say  a  word  to  deter  him." 

"  Why,  Steve,"  expostulated  Robert  Maitland, 


302'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  surely  you  know  I  would  risk  anything  for  Enid; 
somehow  it  seems  as  If  I  were  being  put  in  the 
selfish  position  by  my  opposition." 

"  No,  no/'  said  his  brother,  "  it  isn't  that.  iYou 
have  your  wife  and  children,  but  this  young 
man  —  " 

**Well,  what  do  you  say,  Kirkby?  Not  that 
It  makes  any  difference  to  me  what  anybody  says. 
Come,  we  are  wasting  time,"  interposed  Arm- 
strong, who,  now  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind, 
was  anxious  to  be  off. 

"  Jim  Armstrong,"  answered  Kirkby  decidedly, 
"  I  never  thought  much  of  you  in  the  past,  an'  I 
think  sence  you've  put  out  this  last  projick  of  yourn 
that  I'm  entitled  to  call  you  a  damn  fool,  w'ich 
you  are,  an'  I'm  another,  for  I'm  goin'  Into  the 
mountains  with  you." 

"Oh,  thank  God  I"  cried  Stephen  Maitland 
fervently. 

"  I  know  you  don't  like  me,"  answered  Arm- 
strong; "that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Perhaps 
you  have  cause  to  dislike  me,  perhaps  you  have 
not;  I  don't  like  you  any  too  well  myself;  but 
there  is  no  man  on  earth  I'd  rather  have  go  with 
me  on  a  quest  of  this  kind  than  you,  and  there's 
my  hand  on  It." 

Kirkby  shook  It  vigorously. 

"  This  ain't  commlttin'  myself,"  he  said  cau- 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range  303 

tiously.  "  So  far*s  Fm  concerned  you  ain't  good 
enough  for  Miss  Maltland,  but  I  admires  your 
spirit,  Armstrong,  an'  I'm  goin'  with  you.  Tain't 
no  good,  twon't  produce  nothin',  most  likely  we'll 
never  come  back  agin;  but  jest  the  same  I'm  goin' 
along;  nobody's  goin'  to  show  me  the  trail;  my 
nerve  and  grit  w'en  It  comes  to  helpin'  a  young 
feemale  like  that  girl  Is  as  good  as  anybody's  I 
guess.  You're  her  father,"  he  drawled  on,  turn- 
ing to  Stephen  Maltland,  "  an'  I  ain't  no  kin  to 
her,  but  by  gosh,  I  believe  I  can  understand  better 
than  anyone  else  yere  what  you  are  feelin'." 

"  KIrkby,"  said  Robert  Maltland,  smiling  at 
the  other  two,  "you  have  gone  clean  back  on 
me.  I  thought  you  had  more  sense.  But  some- 
how I  guess  It's  contagious,  for  I  am  going  along 
with  you  two  myself." 

"  And  I,  cannot  I  accompany  you  ?  "  pleaded 
Stephen  Maltland,  eagerly  drawing  near  to  the 
other  three. 

"  Not  much,"  said  old  KIrkby  promptly.  "  You 
ain't  got  the  stren'th,  ol'  man,  you  don't  know 
them  mountains,  nuther;  you'd  be  helpless  on  a 
pair  of  snow  shoes,  there  ain't  anything  you  could 
do,  you'd  jest  be  a  drag  on  us.  Without  sayin' 
anything  about  myself,  w'ich  I'm  too  modest  for 
that,  there  ain't  three  better  men  In  Colorado  to 
tackle   this   job   than   Jim   Armstrong    an'    Bob 


304  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Maitland  an'  —  well,  as  I  said,  I  won't  mention! 
no  other  names." 

"  God  bless  you  all,  gentlemen,"  faltered 
Stephen  Maitland.  "  I  think  perhaps  I  may 
have  been  wrong,  a  little  prejudiced  against  the: 
west,  you  are  men  that  would  do  honor  to  any 
family,  to  any  society  in  Philadelphia  or  anywhere 
else." 

"  Lord  love  ye,"  drawled  KIrkby,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  "  there  ain't  no  three  men  on  the  At- 
lantic seaboard  that  kin  match  up  with  two  of  us 
yere,  to  say  nothin'  of  the  third." 

"Well,"  said  Robert  Maitland,  "the  thing 
now  is  to  decide  on  what's  to  be  done." 

"  My  plan,"  said  Armstrong,  "  is  to  go  to  the 
old  camp." 

"  Yep,"  said  Kirkby,  "  that's  a  good  point  of 
deeparture,  as  my  seafarin'  father  down  Cape  Cod 
way  used  to  say,  an'  wot's  next." 

"  I  am  going  up  the  canon  Instead  of  down," 
said  the  man,  with  a  flash  of  inspiration. 

"  That  ain't  no  bad  idea  nuther,"  assented  thei 
old  man;  "we  looked  the  ground  over  pretty 
thoroughly  down  the  caiion,  mebbe  we  can  find 
something  up  it." 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  take  with  you?  " 
asked  Maitland. 

"  What  we  can  carry  on  the  backs   of  men. 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range     30^ 

We  will  make  a  camp  somewhere  about  where 
you  did.  We  can  get  enough  husky  men  up  at 
Morrison  who  will  pack  in  what  we  want  and 
with  that  as  a  basis  we  will  explore  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  range."  / 

"  And  when  do  we  start?  " 

"  There  is  a  train  for  Morrison  in  two  hours," 
ianswered  Armstrong.  "  We  can  get  what  we  want 
in  the  way  of  sleeping  bags  and  equipment  be- 
tween now  and  then  if  we  hurry  about  it." 

"  Ef  we  are  goin'  to  do  it,  we  might  as  well 
git  a  move  on  us,"  assented  Kirby,  making  ready 
to  go. 

"  Right,"  answered  Robert  Maitland  grimly. 
**  When  three  men  set  out  to  make  fools  of  them- 
selves the  sooner  they  get  at  it  and  get  over  with 
it  the  better.  IVe  got  some  business  matters  to 
settle,  you  two  get  what's  needed  and  I'll  bear 
my  share." 

A  week  later  a  little  band  of  men  on  snow 
shoes,  wrapped  in  furs  to  their  eyes,  every  one 
heavily  burdened  with  a  pack,  staggered  into  the 
clearing  where  once  had  been  pitched  the  Mait- 
land camp.  The  place  was  covered  with  snow 
of  course,  but  on  a  shelf  of  rock  half  way  up  the 
hogback,  they  found  a  comparatively  level  clear- 
ing and  there,  all  working  like  beavers,  they  built 
a  rude  hut  which  they  covered  with  canvas  and 


3o6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

then  with  tightly  packed  snow  and  which  would 
keep  the  three  who  remained  from  freezing  to 
death.  Fortunately  they  were  favored  by  a 
brief  period  of  pleasant  weather  and  a  few  days 
served    to    make    a    sufficiently   habitable    camp. 

Maltland,  KIrkby  and  Armstrong  worked  with 
the  rest.  There  was  no  thought  of  search  at  first. 
Their  lives  depended  upon  the  erection  of  a  suit- 
able shelter  and  It  was  not  until  the  helpers,  leav- 
ing their  burdens  behind  them,  had  departed  that 
the  three  men  even  considered  what  was  to  be 
done  next. 

"  We  must  begin  a  systematic  search  to-mor- 
row," said  Armstrong  decisively  as  the  three  men 
sat  around  the  cheerful  fire  In  the  hut. 

"  Yes,"  assented  Maltland.  "  Shall  we  go  to- 
gether, or  separately?  " 

"  Separately,  of  course.  We  are  all  hardy  and 
experienced  men,  nothing  Is  apt  to  happen  to  us, 
we  win  meet  here  every  night  and  plan  the  next 
day's  work.     What  do  you  say,  KIrkby?  " 

The  old  man  had  been  quietly  smoking  while 
the  others  talked.  He  smiled  at  them  In  a  way 
which  aroused  their  curiosity  and  made  them  feel 
that  he  had  news  for  them. 

*'  While  you  was  puttin*  the  finlshin'  touches  on 
this  yere  camp,  I  come  acrost  a  heap  o'  stuns,  that 
somehow  the  wind  had  swept  bare.     There  was 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range      307 

a  big  drift  in  front  of  it  w'lch  kep'  us  from  seein' 
It  afore;  it  was  built  up  in  the  open  w'ere  there 
want  no  trees,  an'  in  our  lumberin'  operations  we 
want  lookin'  that-a-way.  I  came  acrost  a  bottle  by- 
chance  an'  — '' 

"  Well,  for  God's  sake,  old  man,"  cried  Arm- 
strong impatiently,  "  what  did  you  find  in  it,  any- 
thing?" 

"  This,"  answered  Kirkby,  carefully  producing 
a  folded  scrap  of  paper  from  his  leather  vest. 

Armstrong  fell  on  it  ravenously,  and  as  Mait- 
land  bent  over  him  they  both  read  these  words  by 
the  fire  light. 

''Miss  Enid  Maitland,  whose  foot  is  so  badly  crushed 
us  to  prevent  her  traveling,  is  safe  in  a  cabin  at  the  head 
of  this  canon,  »  7  put  this  notice  here  to  reassure  any  who 
may  be  seeking  her  as  to  her  welfare.  Follow  the  stream 
Up  to  its  source/* 

Wm.  Berkeley  Newbold, 

"  Thank  God !  "  exclaimed  Robert  Maitland. 

"You  called  me  a  damn  fool,  Kirkby,"  said 
Armstrong,  his  eyes  gleaming.  "  What  do  you 
think  of  It  now?  " 

"It's  the  damn  fool,  I  find,"  said  Kirkby 
saplently,  "  that  gener'ly  gits  there.  Providence 
seems  to  be  a-watchin'  over  'em." 

"  You  said  you  chanced  on  this  paper,  Jack," 


3og  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

continued  Maitland,  "  it  looks  to  me  like  the  de- 
liberate Intention  of  Almighty  God." 

"  I  reckon  so,"  answered  the  other  simply. 
"  You  see  He's  got  to  look  after  all  the  damn 
fools  on  earth  to  keep  'em  from  doln'  too  much 
damage  to  theirselves  an'  to  others  in  this  yere 
crooked  trail  of  a  world." 

"  Let  us  start  now,"  urged  Armstrong. 

**  Tain't  possible,"  said  the  old  man,  taking 
another  puff  at  his  pipe,  and  only  a  glistening  of 
the  eye  betrayed  the  joy  that  he  felt;  otherwise 
his  phlegmatic  calm  was  unbroken,  his  demeanor 
just  as  undisturbed  as  It  always  was.  *'  We'd 
jest  throw  away  our  lives  a  wanderin'  round  these 
yere  mountains  in  the  dark,  we've  got  to  have 
light  an'  clear  weather.  Ef  It  should  be  snowin' 
in  the  mornin'  we'd  have  to  wait  until  It  cleared." 

"  I  won't  wait  a  minute,"  cried  Armstrong. 
"  At  daybreak,  weather  or  no  weather,  I  start." 

"  What's  your  hurry,  Jim  ?  "  continued  KIrkby 
calmly.  "  The  gal's  safe,  one  day  more  or  less 
ain't  goin'  to  make  no  difference." 

*'  She's  with  another  man,"  answered  Arm- 
strong quickly. 

"Do  you  know  this  Newbold?"  asked  Mait- 
land, looking  at  the  note  again. 

"  No,  not  personally,  but  I  have  heard  of  him." 

"  I  know  him,"  answered  KIrkby  quickly,  "  an' 


The  Challenge  of  the  Range     309 

youVe  seed  him  too,  Bob;  he's  the  fellow  that 
shot  his  wife,  that  married  Louise  Rosser.'* 

"That  man!" 

"  The  very  same." 

"You  say  you  never  saw  him,  Jim?"  asked 
Maltland. 

"  I  repeat  I  never  met  him,"  said  Armstrong, 
flushing  suddenly,  "  but  I  knew  his  wife." 

"  Yes,  you  did  that  =— = "  drawled  the  old  moun- 
taineer. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  flashed  Armstrong. 

"  I  mean  that  you  knowed  her,  that's  all,"  an- 
swered the  old  man  with  an  innocent  air  that  was 
almost  childlike. 

When  the  others  woke  up  in  the  morning  Arm- 
strong's sleeping  bag  was  empty.  KIrkby  crawled 
out  of  his  own  warm  nest,  opened  the  door  and 
peered  out  Into  the  storm. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  I  guess  the  damn  fool  has 
beat  God  this  time;  it  don't  look  to  me  as  if  even 
He  could  save  him  now." 

"  But  we  must  go  after  him  at  once,"  urged 
Maltland. 

"  See  for  yourself,"  answered  the  old  man, 
throwing  wilder  the  door.  "  We've  got  to  wait  'til 
this  wind  dies  down  unless  we  give  the  Almighty 
the  job  o'  lookln'  after  three  instid  o'  one." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  CONVERGING  TRAILS 

Whatever  the  feelings  of  the  others,  Armstrong 
found  himself  unable  to  sleep  that  night.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  fate  was  about  to  play  him 
the  meanest  and  most  fantastic  of  tricks.  Many 
times  before  in  his  crowded  life  he  had  loved 
other  women,  or  so  he  characterized  his  feelings, 
but  his  passion  for  Louise  Rosser  Newbold  had 
been  in  a  class  by  itself  until  he  had  met  Enid 
Maitland.  Between  the  two  there  had  been  many 
women,  but  these  two  were  the  high  points,  the 
rest  was  lowland. 

Once  before,  therefore,  this  Newbold  had  cut 
in  ahead  of  him  and  had  won  the  woman  he  loved. 
Armstrong  had  cherished  a  hard  grudge  against 
him  for  a  long  time.  He  had  not  been  of  those 
who  had  formed  the  rescue  party  led  by  old 
Kirkby  and  Maitland  which  had  buried  the  poor 
woman  on  the  great  butte  in  the  deep  canon.  Be- 
fore he  got  back  to  the  camp  the  whole  affair  was 
over  and  Newbold  had  departed.  Luckily  for 
him,  Armstrong  had  always  thought,  for  he  had 
been  so  mad  with  grief  and  rage  and  jealousy 

310 


The  Converging  Trails  311 

tKat  if  he  had  come  across  him  helpless  or  not 
he  would  have  killed  him  out  of  hand. 

Armstrong  had  soon  enough  forgotten  Louise 
Rosser,  but  he  had  not  forgotten  Newbold.  All 
his  ancient  animosity  had  flamed  into  instant  life 
'again,  at  the  sight  of  his  name  last  night.  The 
inveteracy  of  his  hatred  had  been  in  no  v/ay 
abated  by  the  lapse  of  time  it  seemed. 

Everybody  in  the  mining  camp  had  supposed 
that  Newbold  had  wandered  off  and  perished  in 
the  mountains,  else  Armstrong  might  have  pur- 
sued him  and  hunted  him  down.  The  sight  of 
his  name  on  that  piece  of  paper  was  outward  and 
visible  evidence  that  he  still  lived.  It  had  almost 
the  shock  of  a  resurrection,  and  a  resurrection  to 
hatred  rather  than  to  love.  If  Newbold  had 
been  alone  in  the  world,  if  Armstrong  had 
chanced  upon  him  in  the  solitude,  he  would  have 
hated  him  just  as  he  did;  but  when  he  thought 
that  his  ancient  enemy  was  with  the  woman  he 
now  loved,  with  a  growing  intensity,  beside  which 
his  former  resentment  seemed  weak  and  feeble,  he 
hated  him  yet  the  more. 

He  could  not  tell  when  the  notice,  which  he 
had  examined  carefully,  was  written;  there  was 
no  date  upon  it,  but  he  could  come  to  only  one 
conclusion.  Newbold  must  have  found  Enid 
Maitland  alone  in  the  mountains  very  shortly 


312  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

after  her  departure  and  he  had  had  her  with  him  in 
his  cabin  alone  for  at  least  a  month.  Armstrong 
gritted  his  teeth  at  the  thought.  He  did  not  un- 
dervalue the  personality  of  Newbold,  he  had 
never  happened  to  see  him,  but  he  had  heard 
enough  about  him  to  understand  his  qualities 
as  a  man.  The  tie  that  bound  Armstrong  to 
Enid  Maitland  was  a  strong  one,  but  the  tie  by 
which  he  held  her  to  him,  If  Indeed  he  held  her 
at  all,  was  very  tenuous  and  easily  broken;  per- 
haps it  was  broken  already,  and  so  he  hated  him 
still  more  and  more. 

Indeed  his  animosity  was  so  great  and  grow- 
ing that  for  the  moment  he  took  no  joy  in  the 
assurance  of  the  glrPs  safety,  yet  he  was  not  al- 
together an  unfair  man  and  in  calmer  moments  he 
thanked  God  in  his  own  rough  way  that  the 
woman  he  loved  was  alive  and  well,  or  had  been 
when  the  note  was  written.  He  rejoiced  that  she 
had  not  been  swept  away  with  the  flood  or  that 
she  had  not  been  lost  in  the  mountains  and  forced 
to  wander  on,  finally  to  starve  and  freeze  and  die. 
In  one  moment  her  nearness  caused  his  heart  to 
throb  with  joyful  anticipation.  The  certainty 
that  at  the  first  flush  of  day  he  would  seek  her 
again  sent  the  warm  blood  to  his  cheeks.  But 
these  thoughts  would  be  succeeded  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  w^as  with  his  enemy.     Was  this 


The  Converging  Trails  313 

man  to  rob  him  of  the  latest  love  as  he  had  robbed 
him  of  the  first?  Perhaps  the  hardest  task  that 
was  ever  laid  upon  Armstrong  was  to  lie  quietly 
in  his  sleeping  bag  and  wait  until  the  morning. 

So  soon  as  the  first  indication  of  dawn  showed 
through  the  cracks  of  the  door,  he  slipped  quietly 
out  of  his  sleeping  bag  and  without  disturbing  the 
others  drew  on  his  boots,  put  on  his  heavy  fur 
coat  and  cap  and  gloves,  slung  his  Winchester 
and  his  snow  shoes  over  his  shoulder  and  without 
stopping  for  a  bite  to  eat  softly  opened  the  door, 
stepped  out  and  closed  it  after  him.  It  was  quite 
dark  in  the  bottom  of  the  caiion,  although  a  few 
pale  gleams  overhead  Indicated  the  near  approach 
of  day.  It  was  quite  still,  too.  There  were 
clouds  on  the  mountain  top  heavy  with  threat  of 
wind  and  snow. 

The  way  was  not  difficult,  the  direction  of  it 
that  is.  Nor  was  the  going  very  difficult  at  first; 
the  snow  was  frozen  and  the  crust  was  strong 
enough  to  bear  him.  He  did  not  need  his  snow 
shoes  and  Indeed  would  have  had  little  chance 
to  use  them  in  the  narrow  broken  rocky  pass. 
He  had  slipped  away  from  the  others  because  he 
wanted  to  be  the  first  to  see  the  man  and  the 
woman.  He  did  not  want  any  witness  to  that 
meeting.  They  would  have  to  come  on  later  of 
course,  but  he  wanted  an  hour  or  two  in  private 


314  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

with  Enid  and  Newbold  without  any  Interruption. 
His  conscience  was  not  clear.  Nor  could  he  settle 
upon  a  course  of  action. 

How  much  Newbold  knew  of  his  former  at- 
tempt to  win  away  his  wife,  how  much  of  what 
he  knew  he  had  told  Enid  Maltland,  Armstrong 
could  not  surmise.  Putting  himself  into  New- 
bold's  place  and  imagining  that  the  engineer  had 
possessed  entire  information,  he  decided  that  he 
must  have  told  everything  to  Enid  Maltland  so 
soon  as  he  had  found  out  the  quasi  relation  be- 
tween her  and  Armstrong.  And  Armstrong  did 
not  believe  the  woman  he  loved  could  be  in  any- 
body's presence  a  month  without  telling  something 
about  him.  Still  it  was  possible  that  Newbold 
knew  nothing  and  that  he  told  nothing  therefore. 

The  situation  was  paralyzing  to  a  man  of 
Armstrong's  decided,  determined  temperament. 
He  could  not  decide  upon  the  line  of  conduct  he 
should  pursue.  His  course  in  this,  the  most  critical 
emergency  he  had  ever  faced,  must  be  determined 
by  circumstances  of  which  he  felt  with  savage  re- 
sentment he  was  in  some  measure  the  sport.  He 
would  have  to  leave  to  chance  what  ought  to  be 
subject  to  his  will.  Of  only  one  thing  was  he 
sure  —  he  would  stop  at  nothing,  murder,  lying, 
nothing  to  win  that  woman,  and  to  settle  his  score 
with  that  man. 


The  Converging  Trails  315 

There  was  really  only  one  thing  he  could  do 
and  that  was  to  press  on  up  the  canon.  He  had 
no  idea  how  far  it  might  be  or  how  long  a  journey 
he  would  have  to  make  before  he  reached  that 
shelf  on  the  high  hill  where  stood  that  hut  in 
which  she  dwelt.  As  the  crow  flies  It  could  not 
be  a  great  distance,  but  the  canon  zigzagged 
through  the  mountains  with  as  many  curves  and 
angles  as  a  lightning  flash.  He  plodded  on  there- 
fore with  furious  haste,  recklessly  speeding  over 
places  where  a  misstep  in  the  snow  or  a  slip  on 
the  icy  rocks  would  have  meant  death  or  disaster 
to  him. 

He  had  gone  about  an  hour,  and  had  perhaps 
made  four  miles  from  the  camp,  when  the  storm 
burst  upon  him.  It  was  now  broad  day  and  the 
sky  was  filled  with  clouds  and  the  air  with  driving 
snow.  The  wind  whistled  down  the  canon  with 
terrific  force,  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  made 
any  headway  at  all  against  It.  It  was  a  local 
storm;  If  he  could  have  looked  through  the  snow 
he  would  have  discovered  calmness  on  the  top  of 
the  peaks.  It  was  one  of  those  sudden  squalls  of 
wind  and  snow  which  rage  with  terrific  force 
while  they  last  but  whose  range  was  limited  and 
whose  duration  would  be  as  short  as  It  was  violent 

A  less  determined  man  than  he  would  have 
bowed  to  the  inevitable  and  sought  some  shelter 


3i6  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

behind  a  rock  until  the  fury  of  the  tempest  was 
spent,  but  there  was  no  storm  that  blew  that  could 
stop  this  man  so  long  as  he  had  strength  to  drive 
against  it.  So  he  bent  his  head  to  the  fierce  blast 
and  struggled  on.  There  was  something  titantic 
and  magnificent  about  the  iron  determination  and 
persistence  of  Armstrong.  The  two  most  power- 
ful passions  which  move  humanity  were  at  his 
service;  love  led  him  and  hate  drove  him.  And 
the  two  were  so  intermingled  that  it  was  difficult 
to  say  which  predominated,  now  one  and  now  the 
other.  The  resultant  of  the  two  forces  however 
w^as  an  onward  move  that  would  not  be  denied. 

His  fur  coat  was  soon  covered  with  snow  and 
ice,  the  sharp  needles  of  the  storm  cut  his  face 
wherever  it  was  exposed.  The  wind  forced  its 
way  through  his  garments  and  chilled  him  to  the 
bone.  He  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  night  be- 
fore and  his  vitality  was  not  at  its  flood,  but  he 
pressed  onward  and  upward  and  there  was  some- 
thing grand  in  his  indomitable  progress.  Ex^ 
eels  tor! 

Back  in  the  hut  Kirkby  and  Maitland  sat 
around  the  fire  waiting  most  impatiently  for  the 
wind  to  blow  itself  out  and  for  that  snow  to  stop 
falling  through  which  Armstrong  struggled  for- 
ward. As  he  followed  the  windings  of  the  caiion, 
not  daring  to  ascend  to  the  summit  of  either  wall 


The  Converging  Trails  317 

and  seek  short  cuts  across  the  range,  he  was  sen- 
sible that  he  was  constantly  rising.  There  were 
many  indications  to  his  experienced  .mind ;  the  de- 
crease in  the  height  of  the  surrounding  pines,  the 
increasing  rarity  of  the  icy  air,  the  growing  diffi- 
culty in  breathing  under  the  sustained  exertion  he 
was  making,  the  quick  throbbing  of  his  accele- 
rated heart,  all  told  him  he  was  approaching  his 
journey's  end. 

He  judged  that  he  must  now  be  drawing  near 
the  source  of  the  stream,  and  that  he  would  pres- 
ently come  upon  the  shelter.  He  had  no  means 
of  ascertaining  the  time,  he  would  not  have  dared 
to  unbutton  his  coat  to  glance  at  his  watch,  and 
It  is  difficult  to  measure  the  flying  minutes  in  such 
scenes  as  those  through  which  he  passed,  but  he 
thought  he  must  have  gone  at  least  seven  miles 
in  perhaps  three  hours,  which  he  fancied  had 
elapsed,  his  progress  In  the  last  two  having  been 
frightfully  slow.  Every  foot  of  advance  he  had 
to  fight  for. 

Suddenly,  after  a  quick  turn  In  the  canon,  a  pas- 
sage through  a  narrow  entrance  between  lofty 
clififs,  and  he  found  himself  in  a  pocket  or  a  circular 
amphitheater  which  he  could  see  was  closed  on  the 
further  side.  The  bottom  of  this  enclosure  or  val- 
ley was  covered  with  pines,  now  drooping  under 
tremendous  burdens  of  snow.     In  the  midst  of 


3i8  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  pines  a  lakelet  was  frozen  solid,  the  ice  was 
covered  with  the  same  dazzling  carpet  of  white. 

He  could  have  seen  nothing  of  this  had  not 
the  sudden  storm  now  stopped  as  precipitately  al- 
most as  It  had  begun.  Indeed,  accustomed  to 
the  grayness  of  the  snowfall,  his  eyes  were  fairly 
dazzled  by  the  bright  light  of  the  sun,  now  quite 
^  high  over  the  range,  which  struck  him  full  In  the 
face. 

He  stopped,  panting,  exhausted,  and  leaned 
against  the  rocky  wall  of  the  canon's  mouth  which 
here  rose  sheer  over  his  head.  This  certainly 
was  the  end  of  the  trail,  the  lake  was  the  source 
of  the  frozen  rivulet  along  whose  rocky  and  torn 
banks  he  had  tramped  since  dawn.  Here  If  any- 
where he  would  find  the  object  of  his  quest. 

Refreshed  by  the  brief  pause  and  encouraged 
by  the  Sudden  stilling  of  the  storm,  he  stepped 
out  of  the  canon  and  ascended  a  little  knoll  whence 
he  had  a  full  view  of  the  pocket  over  the  tops  of 
the  pines.  Shading  his  eyes  from  the  light  with 
his  hand  as  best  he  could,  he  slowly  swept  the 
circumference  with  his  eager  glance,  seeing  noth- 
ing until  his  eye  fell  upon  a  huge  broken  trail  of 
rocks  projecting  from  the  snow,  Indicating  the 
ascent  to  a  broad  bare  shelf  of  the  mountains 
across  the  lake  to  the  right.     Following  this  up 


The  Converging  Trails  319 

he  saw  a  huge  block  of  snow  which  suggested 
'dimly  the  outlines  of  a  hut! 

Was  that  the  place?  Was  she  there?  He 
stared  fascinated  and  as  he  did  so  a  thin  curl  of 
smoke  rose  above  the  snow  heap  and  wavered  up 
in  the  cold  quiet  air !  That  was  a  human  habita- 
tion then,  it  could  be  none  other  than  the  hut  re- 
ferred to  in  the  note.  Enid  Maitland  must  be 
there,  and  Newboldl 

The  lake  lay  directly  in  front  of  him  beyond  the 
trees  at  the  foot  of  the  knoll  and  between  him  and 
the  slope  that  led  up  to  the  hut.  If  it  had  been 
summer,  he  would  have  been  compelled  to  fol- 
low the  water's  edge  to  the  right  or  to  the  left, 
both  journeys  would  have  led  over  difficult  trails 
with  little  to  choose  between  them,  but  the  lake 
was  now  frozen  hard  and  covered  with  snow.  He 
had  no  doubt  that  the  snow  would  bear  him,  but 
to  make  sure  he  drew  his  snow  shoes  from  his 
shoulder,  slipped  his  feet  in  the  straps,  and  sped 
straight  on  through  the  trees  and  then  across  the 
lake  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow. 

In  five  minutes  he  was  at  the  foot  of  the  giant 
stairs.  Kicking  off  his  snow  shoes  he  scrambled 
up  the  broken  way,  easily  finding  in  the  snow  a 
trail  which  had  evidently  been  passed  and  re- 
passed daily.     In  a  few  moments  he  was  at  the 


320  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

top  of  the  shelf.  A  hard  trampled  path  ran  be- 
tween high  walls  of  snow  to  a  door  I 

Behind  that  door  what  would  he  find?  Just 
what  he  brought  to  it,  love  and  hate  he  fancied. 
We  usually  find  on  the  other  side  of  doors  no 
more  and  no  less  than  we  bring  to  our  own  sides. 
But  whatever  it  might  be,  there  was  no  hesitation 
in  Armstrong's  course.  He  ran  toward  It,  laid 
his  hand  on  the  latch  and  opened  it. 

What  creatures  of  habit  we  are!  Early  in 
that  same  morning,  after  one  vain  attempt  again 
to  influence  the  woman  who  was  now  the  deciding 
and  determining  factor  and  who  seemed  to  be 
taking  the  man's  place,  Newbold,  ready  for  his 
journey,  had  torn  himself  away  from  her  pres- 
ence and  had  plunged  down  the  giant  stair.  He 
had  done  everything  that  mortal  man  could  do 
for  her  comfort;  wood  enough  to  last  her  for  two 
weeks  had  been  taken  from  the  cave  and  piled 
in  the  kitchen  and  elsewhere  so  as  to  be  easily 
accessible  to  her,  the  stores  she  already  had  the 
run  of  and  he  had  fitted  a  stout  bar  to  the  outer 
door  which  would  render  it  impregnable  to  any 
attack  that  might  be  made  against  it,  although 
he  saw  no  quarter  from  which  any  assault  Im- 
pended. 

Enid  had  recovered  not  only  her  strength  but 
a  good  deal  of  her  nerve.     That  she  loved  this 


The  Converging  Trails  321 

man  and  that  he  loved  her  had  given  her  courage. 
She  would  be  fearfully  lonely  of  course,  but  not 
so  much  afraid  as  before.  The  month  of  Im- 
munity in  the  mountains  without  any  Interruption 
had  dissipated  any  possible  apprehensions  on  her 
part.  It  was  with  a  sinking  heart  however  that 
she  saw  him  go  at  last. 

They  had  been  so  much  together  in  that  month 
they  had  learned  what  love  was.  When  he  came 
back  it  would  be  different,  he  would  not  come 
alone.  The  first  human  being  he  met  would  bring 
the  world  to  the  door  of  the  lonely  but  beloved 
cabin  In  the  mountains  —  the  world  with  its  ques- 
tions. Its  inferences.  Its  suspicions,  its  denuncia- 
tions and  Its  accusations!  Some  kind  of  an  ex- 
planation would  have  to  be  made,  some  sort  of 
an  answer  would  have  to  be  given,  some  solution 
of  the  problem  would  have  to  be  arrived  at. 
What  these  would  be  she  could  not  tell. 

Newbold's  departure  was  like  the  end  of  an 
era  to  her.  The  curtain  dropped,  when  It  rose 
again  what  was  to  be  expected?  There  was  no 
comfort  except  In  the  thought  that  she  loved  him. 
So  long  as  their  affections  matched  and  ran  to- 
gether nothing  else  mattered.  With  the  solution 
of  It  all  next  to  her  sadly  beating  heart  she  was 
still  supremely  confident  that  Love,  or  God  — 
and  there  was  not  so  much   difference  between 


322  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

them  as  to  make  it  worth  while  to  mention  the 
One  rather  than  the  Other  -. — ■-  would  find  the  way. 

Their  leave  taking  had  been  singularly  cold 
and  abrupt.  She  had  realized  the  danger  he 
was  apt  to  incur  and  she  had  exacted  a  reluctant 
promise  from  him  that  he  would  be  careful. 

"  Don't  throw  your  life  away,  don't  risk  it 
even,  remember  that  It  Is  mine,"  she  had  urged. 

And  just  as  simply  as  she  had  enjoined  It  upon 
him  he  had  promised.  He  had  given  his  word 
that  he  would  not  send  help  back  to  her  but  that 
he  would  bring  it  back,  and  she  had  confidence 
In  that  word.  A  confidence  that  had  he  been  In- 
clined to  break  his  promise  would  have  made  It 
absolutely  Impossible.  There  had  been  a  long 
clasp  of  the  hands,  a  long  look  In  the  eyes,  a  long 
breath  In  the  breast,  a  long  throb  In  the  heart  and 
then  —  farewell.     They  dared  no  more. 

Once  before  he  had  left  her  and  she  had  stood 
upon  the  plateau  and  followed  his  vanishing  fig- 
ure with  anxious  troubled  thought  until  it  had 
been  lost  In  the  depths  of  the  forest  below.  She 
had  controlled  herself  In  this  second  parting  for 
his  sake  as  well  as  her  own.  Under  the  ashes  of 
his  grim  repression  she  realized  the  presence  of 
live  coals  which  a  breath  would  have  fanned  Into 
flame.  She  dared  nothing  while  he  was  there, 
but  when  he  shut  the  door  behind  him  the  neces- 


The  Converging  Trails  323" 

sity  for  self-control  was  removed.  She  had  laid 
her  arms  on  the  table  and  bowed  her  head  upon 
them  and  shook  and  quivered  with  emotions  un- 
relieved by  a  single  tear  —  weeping  was  for 
lighter  hearts  and  less  severe  demands  I 

His  position  after  all  was  the  easier  of  the  two. 
As  of  old  it  was  the  man  who  went  forth  to  the 
battle  field  while  the  woman  could  only  wait 
passively  the  Issue  of  the  ^ght  Although  he 
was  half  blinded  with  emotion  he  had  to  give 
some  thought  to  his  progress,  and  there  was  yet 
one  task  to  be  done  before  he  could  set  forth 
upon  his  journey  toward  civilization  and  rescue. 

It  was  fortunate,  as  it  turned  out,  that  this 
obligation  detained  him.  He  was  that  type  of  a 
merciful  man  whose  mercies  extended  to  his 
beasts.  The  poor  little  burros  must  be  attended 
to  and  their  safety  assured  so  far  as  it  could  be, 
for  it  would  be  impossible  for  Enid  Maitland  to 
care  for  them.  Indeed  he  had  already  exacted  a 
promise  from'  her  that  she  would  not  leave  the 
plateau  and  risk  her  life  on  the  icy  stairs  with 
which  she  was  so  unfamiliar. 

He  had  gone  to  the  corral  and  shaken  down 
food  enough  for  them  which  if  it  had  been  doled 
out  to  them  day  by  day  would  have  lasted  longer 
than  the  week  he  intended  to  be  absent;  of  course 
he  realized  that  they  would  eat  It  up  In  half  that 


324  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

time,  but  even  so  they  would  probably  suffer  not 
too  great  discomfort  before  he  got  back. 

All  these  preparations  took  some  little  time. 
It  had  grown  somewhat  late  in  the  morning  be- 
fore he  started.  There  had  been  a  fierce  storm 
raging  when  he  first  looked  out  and  at  her  earnest 
solicitation  he  had  delayed  his  departure  until  It 
had  subsided. 

His  tasks  at  the  corral  were  at  last  completed; 
he  had  done  what  he  could  for  them  both,  noth- 
ing now  remained  but  to  make  the  quickest  and 
safest  way  to  the  settlement.  Shouldering  the 
pack  containing  his  ax  and  gun  and  sleeping  bag 
and  such  provisions  as  would  serve  to  tide  him 
over  until  he  reached  human  habitations,  he  set 
forth.  He  did  not  look  up  to  the  hut;  Indeed,  he 
could  not  have  seen  it  for  the  corral  was  almost 
directly  beneath  it;  but  If  it  had  been  In  full  view 
he  would  not  have  looked  back,  he  could  not  trust 
himself  to;  every  instinct,  every  impulse  In  his 
soul  would  fain  drag  him  back  to  that  hut  and  to 
the  woman.  It  was  only  his  will  and,  did  he  but 
know  it,  her  will  that  made  him  carry  out  his  pur- 
pose. 

He  would  have  saved  perhaps  half  a  mile  on 
his  journey  if  he  had  gone  straight  across  the  lake 
to  the  mouth  of  the  caiion.  We  are  creatures  of 
habit.     He  had  always  gone  around  the  lake  on 


The  Converging  Trails  325] 

the  familiar  trail  and  unconsciously  he  followed 
that  trail  that  morning.  He  was  thinking  of  her 
as  he  plodded  on  in  a  mechanical  way  over  the 
trail  which  followed  the  border  of  the  lake  for  a 
time,  plunged  into  the  woods,  wound  among  the 
pines  and  at  last  reached  that  narrow  rift  in  the  en- 
circling wall  through  which  the  river  flowed.  He 
had  passed  along  the  white  way  oblivious  to  all  his 
surroundings,  but  as  he  came  to  the  entrance  he 
could  not  fail  to  notice  what  he  suddenly  saw  in 
the  snow. 

Robinson  Crusoe  when  he  discovered  the  fa- 
mous footprint  of  Man  Friday  in  the  sand  was 
not  more  astonished  at  what  met  his  vision  than 
Nev/bold  on  that  winter  morning.  For  there,  in 
the  virgin  whiteness,  were  the  tracks  of  a  man ! 

He  stopped  dead  with  a  sudden  contraction  of 
the  heart.  Humanity  other  than  he  and  she  in 
that  wilderness  ?  It  could  not  be !  For  a  mo- 
ment he  doubted  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses. 
He  shook  his  pack  loose  from  his  shoulders  and 
bent  down  to  examine  the  tracks  to  read  if  he 
could  their  indications.  He  could  see  that  some 
one  had  come  up  the  canon,  that  someone  had 
leaned  against  the  wall,  that  someone  had  gone 
on.     Where  had  he  gone? 

To  follow  the  new  trail  was  child's  play  for 
him.     He  ran  by  the  side  of  It  until  he  reached 


326  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

the  knoll.  The  stranger  had  stopped  again,  he 
had  shifted  from  one  foot  to  another,  evidently 
he  had  been  looking  about  him  seeking  someone, 
only  Enid  Maitland  of  course.  The  trail  ran 
forward  to  the  edge  of  the  frozen  lake,  there  the 
man  had  put  on  his  snow  shoes,  there  he  had  sped 
across  the  lake  like  an  arrow  and  like  an  arrow 
himself,  although  he  had  left  behind  his  own  snow 
shoes,  Newbold  ran  upon  his  track.  Fortunately 
the  snow  crest  upbore  him.  The  trail  ran  straight 
to  the  foot  of  the  rocky  stairs.  The  newcomer 
had  easily  found  his  way  there. 

With  beating  heart  and  throbbing  pulse.  New- 
bold  himself  bounded  up  the  acclivity  after  the 
stranger,  marking  as  he  did  so  evidences  of  the 
other's  prior  ascent.  Reaching  the  top  like  him 
he  ran  down  the  narrow  path  and  in  his  turn  laid 
his  hand  upon  the  door. 

He  was  not  mistaken,  he  heard  voices  within. 
He  listened  a  second  and  then  flung  it  open,  and 
as  the  other  had  done,  he  entered. 

Way  back  on  the  trail,  old  Kirkby  and  Robert 
Maitland,  the  storm  having  ceased,  were  rapidly 
climbing  up  the  canon.  Fate  was  bringing  all  the 
actors  of  the  little  drama  within  the  shadow  of 
her  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  ODDS  AGAINST  HIM 

The  noise  of  the  opening  of  the  door  and  the  In- 
rush of  cold  air  that  followed  awoke  Enid  Mait- 
land  to  instant  action.  She  rose  to  her  feet  and 
faced  the  entrance  through  which  she  expected 
Newbold  to  reappear  —  for  of  course  the  new- 
comer must  be  he  —  and  for  the  life  of  her  she 
could  not  help  that  radiating  flash  of  joy  at  that 
momentary  anticipation  which  fairly  transfigured 
her  being;  although  If  she  had  stopped  to  reflect 
she  would  have  remembered  that  not  In  the  whole 
course  of  their  acquaintance  had  Newbold  ever 
entered  her  room  at  any  time  without  knocking 
and  receiving  permission. 

Some  of  that  joy  yet  lingered  in  her  lovely 
face  when  she  tardily  recognized  the  newcomer 
in  the  half  light.  Armstrong,  scarcely  waiting  to 
close  the  door,  sprang  forward  joyfully  with  his 
hands  outstretched. 

"Enid!"  he  cried. 

Naturally  he  thought  the  look  of  expectant 
happiness  he  had  surprised  upon  her  face  was  for 
him  and  he  accounted  for  Its  sudden  dlsappear- 

327 


328  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

ance  by  the  shock  of  his  unexpected,  unannounced, 
abrupt,  entrance. 

The  warm  color  had  flushed  her  face,  but  as 
she  stared  at  him  her  aspect  rapidly  changed. 
She  grew  paler.  The  happy  light  that  had  shone 
In  her  eyes  faded  away  and  as  he  approached  her 
she  shrank  back. 

"  You !  "  she  exclaimed  almost  in  terror. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  smilingly,  "  I  have  found 
you  at  last.  Thank  God  you  are  safe  and  well. 
Oh,  If  you  could  only  know  the  agonies  I  have 
gone  through.  I  thought  I  loved  you  when  I 
left  you  six  weeks  ago,  but  now  —  " 

In  eager  Impetuosity  he  drew  nearer  to 
her.  Another  moment  and  he  would  have  taken 
her  In  his  arms,  but  she  would  have  none  of 
him. 

"  Stop,"  she  said  with  a  cold  and  Inflexible 
sternness  that  gave  pause  even  to  his  buoyant  joy- 
ful assurance. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

"The  matter?     Everything,  but  —  '* 

"  No  evasions,  please,"  continued  the  man  still 
cheerfully  but  with  a  growing  misgiving.  His 
suspicions  in  abeyance  for  the  moment  because  of 
his  joy  at  seeing  her  alive  and  well  arose  with  re- 
newed force.  "  I  left  you  practically  pledged  to 
me,"  he  resumed. 


The  Odds  Against  Him  329 

"  Not  so  fast,"  answered  Enid  Maitland,  de- 
termined to  combat  the  slightest  attempt  to  estab- 
lish a  binding  claim  upon  her. 

"Isn't  it  true?"  asked  Armstrong.  **  Here, 
wait,"  he  said  before  she  could  answer,  "  I  am 
half  frozen,  I  have  been  searching  for  you  since 
early  morning  in  the  storm."  He  unbuttoned 
and  unbelted  his  huge  fur  coat  as  he  spoke  and 
threw  it  carelessly  on  the  floor  by  his  Winchester 
leaning  against  the  wall.  *'  Now,"  he  resumed, 
*'  I  can  talk  better." 

*'  You  must  have  something  to  eat  then,"  said 
the  girl. 

She  was  glad  of  the  interruption  since  she  was 
playing  for  time.  She  did  not  quite  know  how 
the  Interview  would  end,  he  had  come  upon  her 
so  unexpectedly  and  she  had  never  formulated 
how  she  should  say  to  him  that  which  she  felt  she 
must  say.  She  must  have  time  to  think,  to  col- 
lect herself,  which  he  on  his  part  was  quite  willing 
to  give  her,  for  he  was  not  much  better  prepared 
for  the  interview  than  she.  He  really  was  hun- 
gry and  tired;  his  early  journey  had  been  fool- 
hardy and  in  the  highest  degree  dangerous. 
The  violence  of  his  admiration  for  her,  added  to 
the  excitement  of  her  presence  and  the  probable 
nearness  of  Newbold  as  to  whose  whereabouts  he 
wondered,  were  not  conducive  to  rapid  recupera- 


330  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

tlon.  It  would  be  comfort  to  him  also  to  have 
food  and  time. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  a 
moment. 

The  fire  of  the  morning  was  still  burning  in  the 
stove  in  the  kitchen;  to  heat  a  can  of  soup,  to 
make  him  some  buttered  toast  and  hot  coffee  were 
the  tasks  of  a  few  moments.  She  brought  them 
back  to  him,  set  them  on  the  table  before  him  and 
bade  him  fall  to. 

"  By  Jove,"  exclaimed  the  man  after  a  little 
time  as  he  began  to  eat  hastily  but  with  great  rel- 
ish what  she  had  prepared,  while  she  stood  over 
him  watching  him  silently,  "  this  is  cozy.  A 
warm,  comfortable  room,  something  to  eat  served 
by  the  finest  woman  In  the  world,  the  prettiest 
girl  on  earth  to  look  at  —  what  more  could  a  man 
desire?  This  is  the  way  It's  going  to  be  always 
in  the  future." 

"  You  have  no  warrant  whatever  for  saying  or 
hoping  that,"  answered  the  girl  slowly  but  de- 
cisively. 

"  Have  I  not?  "  asked  the  man  quickly.  "  Did 
you  not  say  to  me  a  little  while  ago  that  you  liked 
me  better  than  any  man  you  had  ever  met  and 
that  I  might  win  you  if  I  could?  Well,  I  can, 
and  what's  more  I  will  in  spite  of  yourself." 
Me  laughed.     "Why,  the  memory  of  that  kiss 


The  Odds  Against  Him  331 

I  stole  from  you  makes  me  mad/'  He  pushed 
away  the  things  before  him  and  rose  to  his  feet 
once  more.  *'  Come,  give  me  another,"  he 
said;  "  it  Isn't  In  the  power  of  woman  to  stand  out 
against  a  love  like  mine." 

"Isn't  It?"  ' 

"  No,  Indeed." 

"  Louise  Newbold  did,"  she  answered  very 
quietly,  but  with  the  swiftness  and  the  dexterity 
of  a  sword  thrust  by  a  master  hand,  a  mighty  arm. 

Armstrong  stared  at  her  in  open-mouthed  as- 
tonishment. 

"  What  do  you  know  about  Louise  Rosser  or 
Newbold?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

**  All  that  I  want  to  know." 

"  And  did  that  damned  hound  tell  you?  " 

"  If  you  mean  Mr.  Newbold,  he  never  men- 
tioned your  name,  he  does  not  know  you  exist." 

"  Where  Is  he  now?  "  thundered  the  man. 

"  Have  no  fear,"  answered  the  woman  calmly, 
"  he  has  gone  to  the  settlements  to  tell  them  I  am 
safe  and  to  seek  help  to  get  me  out  of  the  moun- 
tains." 

"  Fear !  "  exclaimed  Armstrong,  proudly,  "  I 
fear  nothing  on  earth.  For  years,  ever  since  I 
heard  his  name  In  fact,  I  have  longed  to  meet 
him.  I  want  to  know  who  told  you  about  that 
woman,  Kirkby?  " 


332'  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  He  never  mentioned  your  name  in  connec- 
tion with  her." 

"  But  you  must  have  heard  It  somewhere," 
cried  the  man  thoroughly  bewildered.  "  The 
birds  of  the  air  didn't  tell  it  to  you,  did  they?  " 

"  She  told  me  herself,"  answered  Enid  Mait- 
land. 

"  She  told  you !  Why,  she's  been  dead  in  her 
grave  five  years,  shot  to  death  by  that  murderous 
dog  of  a  husband  of  hers." 

"  A  word  with  you,  Mr.  Armstrong,"  said  the 
woman  with  great  spirit.  "  You  can't  talk  that 
way  about  Mr.  Newbold;  he  saved  my  life  twice 
over,  from  a  bear  and  then  in  the  cloud  burst 
which  caught  me  in  the  canon." 

"  That  evens  up  a  little,"  said  Armstrong. 
"  Perhaps  for  your  sake  I  will  spare  him." 

"  You !  "  laughed  the  woman  contemptuously. 
"Spare  him  I  Be  advised,  look  to  yourself;  if 
he  ever  finds  out  what  I  know,  I  don't  believe  any 
power  on  earth  could  save  you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Armstrong  carelessly  enough,  al- 
though he  was  consumed  with  hate  and  jealousy 
and  raging  against  her  clearly  evident  disdain, 
"  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  I  guess.  Anyway,  I 
only  want  to  talk  about  you,  not  about  him  or  her. 
Your  father  —  " 

"Is  he  well?" 


The  Odds  Against  Him  333 

"  Well  enough,  but  heart-broken,  crushed.  I 
happened  to  be  in  his  house  In  Philadelphia  when 
the  telegram  came  from  your  uncle  that  you  were 
lost  and  probably  dead.  I  had  just  asked  him 
for  your  hand,"  he  added,  smiling  grimly  at  the 
recollection. 

"  You  had  no  right  to  do  that." 

"  I  know  that." 

"  It  was  not,  It  is  not,  his  to  give." 

**  Still,  when  I  won  you  I  thought  it  would  be 
pleasant  all  around  if  he  knew  and  approved." 

**And  did  he?" 

"  Not  then,  he  literally  drove  me  out  of  the 
house;  but  afterward  he  said  if  I  could  find  you 
I  could  have  you;  and  I  have  found  you  and  I 
will  have  you  whether  you  like  it  or  not." 

"  Never,"  said  the  woman  decisively. 

The  situation  had  got  on  Armstrong's  nerves, 
and  he  must  perforce  show  himself  in  his  true 
colors.  His  only  resources  were  his  strength,  not 
of  mind  but  of  body.  He  made  another  most 
damaging  mistake  at  this  juncture. 

"  We  are  alone  here,  and  I  am  master,  remem- 
ber," he  said  meaningly.  "  Come,  let's  make  it 
up.     Give  me  a  kiss  for  my  pains  and  —  " 

"  I  have  been  been  alone  here  for  a  month 
with  another  man,"  answered  Enid  Maitland, 
who  was  strangely  unafraid  In  spite  of  his  threat. 


334  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  A  gentleman,  he  has  never  so  much  as  offered 
to  touch  my  hand  without  my  permission;  the 
contrast  is  quite  to  your  disadvantage." 

"Are  you  jealous  of  Louise  Rosser?"  asked 
Armstrong,  suddenly  seeing  that  he  was  los- 
ing ground  and  casting  about  desperately  to 
account  for  it,  and  to  recover  what  was  es- 
caping him.  "  Why,  that  was  nothing,  a  mere 
boy  and  girl  affair,"  he  ran  on  with  specious 
good  humor,  as  If  it  were  all  a  trifle.  "  The 
woman  was,  I  hate  to  say  It,  just  crazy  In  love 
with  me,  but  I  really  never  cared  anything  espe- 
cially for  her,  it  was  just  a  harmless  sort  of  flir- 
tation anyway.  She  afterward  married  this  man 
Newbold  and  that's  all  there  was  about  it." 

The  truth  would  not  serve  him  and  In  his  des- 
peration and  desire  he  staked  everything  on  this 
astounding  lie.  The  woman  he  loved  looked  at 
him  with  her  face  as  rigid  as  a  mask. 

"You  won't  hold  that  against  me,  will  you?" 
pleaded  the  man.  "  I  told  you  that  I'd  been  a  man 
among  men,  yes  among  women,  too,  here  In  this 
rough  country  and  that  I  wasn't  worthy  of  you; 
there  are  lots  of  things  in  my  past  that  I  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  and  I  am,  and  the  more  I  see  you 
the  more  ashamed  I  grow,  but  as  for  loving  any 
one  else  all  that  I've  ever  thought  or  felt  or  ex- 
perienced before  now  Is  just  nothing." 


The  Odds  Against  Him  335 

And  this  indeed  was  true,  and  even  Enid  Mait- 
land  with  all  her  prejudice  could  realize  and  un- 
derstand It.  Out  of  the  same  mouth,  it  was  said  of 
old,  proceeded  blessing  and  cursing,  and  from 
these  same  lips  came  truth  and  falsehood;  but  the 
power  of  the  truth  to  influence  this  woman  was 
as  nothing  to  the  power  of  falsehood.  She  could 
never  have  loved  him,  she  now  knew;  a  better 
man  had  won  her  affections,  a  nobler  being 
claimed  her  heart;  but  If  Armstrong  had  told  the 
truth  regarding  his  relationship  to  Newbold's  wife 
and  then  had  completed  it  with  his  passionate 
avowal  of  his  present  love  for  her,  she  would  have 
at  least  admired  him  and  respected  him. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  the  truth,"  she  an- 
swered directly,  "you  have  deliberately  been 
false.'^ 

"  Can't  you  see,"  protested  the  man,  drawing 
nearer  to  her,  "  how  much  I  love  you?  '* 

"Oh,  that,  yes  I  suppose  that  Is  true;  so  far 
as  you  can  love  anyone  I  will  admit  that  you  do 
love  me.'' 

"So  far  as  I  can  love  anyone?"  he  repeated 
after  her.  "Give  me  a  chance  and  I'll  show 
you." 

"  But  you  haven't  told  the  truth  about  Mrs. 
Newbold.  You  have  calumniated  the  dead,  you 
have  sought  to  shelter  yourself  by  throwing  the 


33^  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

burden  of  a  guilty  passion  upon  the  weaker  vessel, 
It  Isn't  manlike,  It  Isn't  —  " 

Armstrong  was  a  bold  fighter,  quick  and 
prompt  In  his  decisions.  He  made  another  effort 
to  set  himself  right.  He  staked  his  all  on  an- 
other throw  of  the  dice,  which  he  began  to  feel 
were  somehow  loaded  against  him. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  admitted,  wondering  anx- 
iously how  much  the  woman  really  knew.  "  It 
wasn't  true,  It  was  a  coward's  act,  I  am  ashamed 
of  It.  I'm  so  mad  with  love  for  you  that  I 
scarcely  know  what  I  am  doing,  but  I  will  make  a 
clean  breast  of  it  now.  I  loved  Louise  Rosser 
after  a  fashion  before  ever  Newbold  came  on 
the  scene.  We  were  pledged  to  each  other,  a 
foolish  quarrel  arose,  she  was  jealous  of  other 
girls  —  " 

"  And  had  she  no  right  to  be?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  so.  We  broke  It  off  anyway, 
and  then  she  married  Newbold,  out  of  pique,  I 
suppose,  or  what  you  will.  I  thought  I  was 
heart-broken  at  the  time.  It  did  hit  me  pretty 
hard;  It  was  five  or  six  years  ago,  I  was  a  young- 
ster then,  I  am  a  man  now.  The  woman  has 
been  dead  long  since.  There  was  some  cock-and- 
bull  story  about  her  falling  off  a  cliff  and  her  hus- 
band being  compelled  to  shoot  her.  I  didn't  half 
believe  It  at  the  time  and  naturally  I  have  been 


The  Odds  Against  Him  337 

waiting  to  get  even  with  him.  I  have  been  hating 
him  for  five  years,  but  he  has  been  good  to  you 
and  we  will  let  bygones  be  bygones.  What  do  I 
care  for  Louise  Rosser,  or  for  him,  or  for  what 
he  did  to  her,  now?  I  am  sorry  that  I  said  what 
I  did,  but  you  will  have  to  charge  It  to  my  blinding 
passion  for  you.  I  can  truthfully  say  that  you 
are  the  one  woman  that  I  have  ever  craved  with 
all  my  heart.  I  will  do  anything,  be  anything,  to 
Win  you." 

It  was  very  brilliantly  done,  he  had  not  told  a 
single  untruth,  he  had  admitted  much,  but  he  had 
withheld  the  essentials  after  all.  He  was  play- 
ing against  desperate  odds,  he  had  no  knowledge 
of  how  much  she  knew,  or  where  she  had  learned 
anything.  Everyone  about  the  mining  camp 
where  she  had  lived  had  known  of  his  love  for 
Louise  Rosser,  but  he  had  not  supposed  there 
was  a  single  human  soul  who  had  been  privy  to 
its  later  developments,  and  he  could  not  figure  out 
any  way  by  which  Enid  Maltland  could  have 
learned  by  any  possibility  any  more  of  the  story 
than  he  had  told  her.  He  had  calculated  swiftly 
and  with  the  utmost  nicety,  just  how  much  he 
should  confess.  He  was  a  keen  witted,  clever 
man  and  he  was  fighting  for  what  he  held  most 
dear,  but  his  eagerness  and  zeal,  as  they  have  often 
done,  overrode  his  judgment,  and  he  made  an- 


338  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

other  mistake  at  this  juncture.  His  evil  genius 
was  at  his  elbow. 

"  You  must  remember,"  he  continued,  "  that 
you  have  been  alone  here  in  these  mountains  with 
a  man  for  over  a  month;  the  world  —  " 

"What,  what  do  you  mean?'*  exclaimed  the 
girl,  who  indeed  knew  very  well  what  he  meant, 
but  who  would  not  admit  the  possibility. 

"  It's  not  every  man,"  he  added,  blindly  rush- 
ing to  his  doom,  "  that  would  care  for  you  or 
want  you  —  after  that." 

He  received  a  sudden  and  terrible  enlighten- 
ment. 

"  You  coward,"  she  cried,  with  upraised  hand, 
whether  in  protest  or  to  strike  him  neither  ever 
knew,  for  at  that  moment  the  door  opened  the 
second  time  that  morning  to  admit  another  man. 


CHAPTER  XXIVi 

THE  LAST  RESORT  OF  KINGS  AND  MEN 

The  sudden  entrant  upon  a  quarrel  between 
others  Is  Invariably  at  a  disadvantage.  Usually 
he  Is  unaware  of  the  cause  of  difference  and  gen- 
erally he  has  no  Idea  of  the  stage  of  development 
of  the  affair  that  has  been  reached.  Newbold 
suffered  from  this  lack  of  knowledge  and  to  these 
disadvantages  were  added  others.  For  Instance, 
he  had  not  the  faintest  Idea  as  to  who  or  what 
was  the  stranger.  The  room  was  not  very  light 
In  the  day  time,  Armstrong  happened  to  be  stand- 
ing with  his  back  to  It  at  some  distance  from  the 
window  by  the  side  of  which  Enid  stood.  Six 
years  naturally  and  Inevitably  make  some  differ- 
ence In  a  man's  appearance  and  It  Is  not  to  be 
wondered  that  at  first  Newbold  did  not  recognize 
the  man  before  him  as  the  original  of  the  face 
In  his  wife's  locket,  although  he  had  studied  that 
face  over  and  over  again.  A  nearer  scrutiny,  a 
longer  study  would  have  enlightened  him  of 
course,  but  for  the  present  he  saw  nothing  but  a 
stranger  visibly  perturbed  on  one  side  and  the 
woman    he   loved    apparently   fiercely   resentful, 

339 


340  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

sternly  Indignant,  confronting  the  other  with  an 
upraised  hand. 

The  man,  whoever  he  was,  had  affronted  her, 
had  aroused  her  Indignation,  perhaps  had  insulted 
her,  that  was  plain.  He  went  swiftly  to  her 
side,  he  Interposed  himself  between  her  and  the 
man. 

"  Enid,"  he  asked,  and  his  easy  use  of  the  name 
was  a  revelation  and  an  Illumination  to  Arm- 
strong, "  who  Is  this  man,  what  has  he  done?  " 

It  was  Armstrong  who  replied.  If  Newbold 
were  In  the  dark,  not  so  he;  although  they  had 
never  spoken,  he  had  seen  Newbold.  He  recog- 
nized him  Instantly,  Indeed  recognized  or  not 
the  newcomer  could  be  no  other  than  he.  There 
was  doubtless  no  other  man  in  the  mountains. 
He  had  expected  to  find  him  when  he  approached 
the  hut  and  was  ready  for  him. 

To  the  fire  of  his  ancient  hatred  and  jealousy 
was  added  a  new  fuel  that  increased  Its  heat  and 
flame.  This  man  had  come  between  Armstrong 
and  the  woman  he  loved  before  and  had  got  away 
unscathed,  evidently  he  had  come  between  him 
and  this  new  woman  he  loved.  Well,  he  should 
be  made  to  suffer  for  It  this  time  and  by  Arm- 
strong's own  hands.  The  Instant  Newbold  had 
entered  the  room  Armstrong  had  thirsted  to  leap 
upon  him  and  he  meant  to  do  It.     One  or  the 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    341 

other  of  them,  he  swore  in  his  heart,  should  never 
leave  that  room  alive. 

But  Newbold  should  have  his  chance.  Arm- 
strong was  as  brave,  as  fearless,  as  intrepid,  as 
any  man  on  earth.  There  was  much  that  was 
admirable  In  his  character;  he  would  not  take  any 
man  at  a  disadvantage  in  an  encounter  such  as  he 
proposed.  He  would  not  hesitate  to  rob  a  man 
of  his  wife  If  he  could  and  he  would  not  shrink 
from  any  deceit  necessary  to  gain  his  purpose 
with  a  woman,  for  good  or  evil,  but  he  had  his 
own  Ideas  of  honor,  he  would  not  shoot  an  enemy 
in  the  back  for  Instance. 

Singular  perversion,  this,  to  which  some  minds 
are  liable!  To  take  from  a  man  his  wife  by 
subtle  and  underhand  methods,  to  rob  him  of  that 
which  makes  life  dear  and  sweet  —  there  was 
nothing  dishonorable  in  that!  But  to  take  his 
life,  a  thing  of  infinitely  less  moment,  by  the  same 
process  —  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  In 
Armstrong's  code  It  was  right,  it  was  imperative, 
to  confront  a  man  with  the  truth  and  take  the  con- 
sequences ;  but  to  confront  a  woman  with  a  lie  and 
take  her  body  and  soul,  if  so  be  she  might  be 
gained,  was  equally  admirable.  And  there  are 
other  souls  than  Armstrong's  in  which  this  moral 
inconsistency  and  obliquity  about  men  and  women 
has  lodgment. 


2^z^  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Armstrong  confronted  Newbold  therefore, 
lustful  of  battle;  he  yearned  to  leap  upon  him, 
his  fingers  itched  to  grasp  him,  then  trembled 
slightly  as  he  rubbed  them  nervously  against  his 
thumbs;  his  face  protruded  a  little,  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed. 

*'  My  name  is  Armstrong,''  he  said,  determined 
to  precipitate  the  issue  without  further  delay  and 
flinging  the  words  at  the  other  in  a  tone  of  hector- 
ing defiance  which,  however,  strange  to  say,  did 
not  seem  to  affect  Newbold  in  exactly  the  degree 
he  had  anticipated. 

Yet  the  name  was  an  illumination  to  Newbold, 
though  not  at  all  in  the  way  the  speaker  had  fan- 
cied; the  recollection  of  it  was  the  one  fact  con- 
cerning the  woman  he  loved  that  rankled  in  the 
solitary's  mind.  He  had  often  wanted  to  ask 
Enid  Maitland  what  she  had  meant  by  that 
chance  allusion  to  Armstrong  which  she  had  made 
in  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance,  but  he  had 
refrained.  At  first  he  had  no  right  to  question 
her,  there  could  be  no  natural  end  to  their  affec- 
tions ;  and  latterly  when  their  hearts  had  been  dis- 
closed to  each  other  in  the  wild,  tempestuous, 
passionate  scenes  of  the  last  two  or  three  days, 
he  had  had  things  of  greater  moment  to  engage 
his  attention,  subjects  of  more  importance  to  dis- 
cuss with  her. 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    343 

He  had  for  the  time  being  forgotten  Armstrong 
and  he  had  not  before  known  what  jealousy  was 
until  he  had  entered  that  room.  To  have  seen 
her  with  any  man  would  have  given  him  acute 
pain,  perhaps  just  because  he  had  been  so  long 
withdrawn  from  human  society,  but  to  see  her 
with  this  man  who  flashed  Instantly  into  his  recol- 
lection upon  the  utterance  of  his  name  was  an 
added  exasperation. 

Newbold  turned  to  the  woman,  to  whom  indeed 
he  had  addressed  his  question  In  the  first  place, 
and  there  was  something  in  his  movement  which 
bespoke  a  galling,  almost  contemptuous,  oblivious- 
ness to  the  presence  of  the  other  man  which  was 
indeed  hard  for  him  to  bear. 

Hate  begets  hate.  He  was  quite  conscious  of 
Armstrong's  antagonism,  which  was  entirely  un- 
disguised and  open  and  which  was  growing  greater 
with  every  passing  moment.  The  score  against 
Newbold  was  running  up  in  the  mind  of  his  vis- 
itor. 

"Ah,"  coolly  said  the  owner  of  the  cabin  to 
the  latest  of  his  two  guests,  "  I  do  remember 
Miss  Maitland  did  mention  your  name  the  first 
day  she  spent  here.  Is  he  a- — ^a  friend  of 
yours  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  woman. 

"  Not  now,"  answered  Enid  Maitland. 

She  too  was  In  a  strange  state  of  perturbation 


344  The  Chalice  of  Courage; 

on  account  of  the  dilemma  in  which  she  found 
herself  Involved.  She  was  determined  not  to  be- 
tray the  unconscious  confidence  of  the  dead.  She 
hoped  fervently  that  Newbold  would  not  recog- 
nize Armstrong  as  the  man  of  the  locket,  but  If  he 
did  she  was  resolute  that  he  should  not  also  be  rec- 
ognized as  the  man  of  the  letters,  at  least  not  by 
her  act.  Newbold  was  Ignorant  of  the  existence 
of  those  letters  and  she  did  not  Intend  that  he 
should  be  enlightened  so  far  as  she  could  prevent 
It.  But  she  was  keen  enough  to  see  that  the  first 
recognition  would  be  Inevitable;  she  even  admit- 
ted the  fact  that  Armstrong  would  probably  pre- 
cipitate It  himself.  Well,  no  human  soul,  not 
even  their  writer,  knew  that  she  had  the  letters 
except  old  KIrkby  and  he  was  far  away.  She 
wished  that  she  had  destroyed  them;  she  had  de- 
termined to  do  so  at  the  first  convenient  oppor- 
tunity. Before  that,  however,  she  Intended  to 
show  them  not  to  Newbold  but  to  Armstrong,  to 
disclose  his  perfidy,  to  convict  him  of  the  false- 
hood he  had  told  her  and  to  justify  herself  even 
in  his  eyes  for  the  action  she  had  taken. 

Mingled  with  all  these  quick  reflections  was  a 
deadly  fear.  She  was  quick  to  perceive  the  ha- 
tred Armstrong  cherished  against  Nev/bold  on 
the  one  hand  because  of  the  old  love  affair,  the 
long  standing  grudge  breaking  Into  sudden  life; 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    345 

on  the  other  because  of  her  own  failure  to  come 
to  Armstrong's  hand  and  her  love  for  Newbold 
which  she  had  no  desire  to  conceal.  The  cumula- 
tion of  all  these  passionate  antagonisms  would 
only  make  him  the  more  desperate,  she  knew. 

Whether  or  not  Newbold  found  out  Arm- 
strong's connection  with  his  past  love  there  was 
sufficient  provocation  in  the  present  to  evoke  all 
the  oppugnation  and  resentment  of  his  nature. 
Enid  felt  as  she  might  If  the  puncheons  of  the 
floor  had  been  sticks  of  dynamite  with  active  de- 
tonators in  every  heel  that  pressed  them;  as  If 
the  slightest  movement  on  the  part  of  anyone 
would  bring  about  an  explosion. 

The  tensity  of  the  situation  was  bewildering  to 
her.  It  had  come  upon  her  with  such  startling 
force;  the  unexpected  arrival  of  Armstrong,  of 
all  the  men  on  earth  the  one  who  ought  not  to  be 
there,  and  then  the  equally  startling  arrival  of 
Newbold,  of  whom  perhaps  the  same  might  have 
been  said.  If  Newbold  had  only  gone  on,  if  he 
had  not  come  back.  If  she  had  been  rescued  by 
her  uncle  or  old  KIrkby — =  But  "  Ifs  "  were  idle, 
she  had  to  face  a  present  situation  to  which  she 
was  utterly  unequal. 

She  had  entirely  repudiated  Armstrong,  that 
was  one  sure  point;  she  knew  how  guilty  he  had 
been  toward  Newbold's  wife,  that  was  another; 


34^  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

she  realized  how  he  had  deceived  her,  that  was 
the  third.  These  eliminated  the  man  from  her 
affections.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  thrust  a  man  out 
of  your  heart  and  another  to  thrust  him  out  of 
your  life;  he  was  still  there.  And  by  no  means 
the  sport  of  blind  fate,  Armstrong  intended  to 
have  something  to  say  as  to  the  course  of  events, 
to  use  his  own  powers  to  determine  the  issue. 

Of  but  one  thing  besides  her  hatred  for  Arm- 
strong was  Enid  Maitland  absolutely  certain;  she 
would  never  disclose  to  the  man  she  loved  the 
fact  that  the  woman,  the  memory  of  whose  sup- 
posed passion  he  cherished,  had  been  unfaithful  to 
him  in  heart  if  not  in  deed.  Nothing  could  wrest 
that  secret  from  her.  She  had  been  infected  by 
Newbold's  quixotic  Ideas,  the  contagion  of  his 
perversion  of  common  sense  had  fastened  itself 
upon  her.  She  would  not  have  been  human 
either  if  she  had  not  experienced  a  thrill  of  pride 
and  joy  at  the  possibility  that  in  some  way,  of 
which  she  yet  swore  she  would  not  be  the  instru- 
ment blind  or  otherwise,  the  facts  might  be  dis- 
closed which  would  enable  Newbold  to  claim  her 
openly  and  honorably,  without  hesitation  before 
or  remorse  after,  as  his  wife.  This  fascinating 
flash  of  expectant  hopeful  feeling  she  thought  un- 
worthy of  her  and  strove  to  fight  It  down,  but 
with  manifest  Impossibility. 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    347 

It  has  taken  time  to  set  these  things  down;  to 
speak  or  to  write  is  a  slow  process  and  the  ratio 
between  outward  expressions  and  inward  is  as 
great  as  that  between  light  and  sound.  Ques- 
tions and  answers  between  these  three  followed 
as  swiftly  as  thrust  and  parry  between  accom- 
plished swordsmen,  and  yet  between  each  demand 
and  reply  they  had  time  to  entertain  these  swift 
thoughts — as  the  drowning  compass  life  expe- 
riences in  seconds  I 

"  I  may  not  be  her  'friend,"  said  Armstrong 
steadily,  "  but  she  left  me  in  these  mountains  a 
month  ago  with  more  than  a  half  way  promise  to 
marry  me,  and  I  have  sought  her  through  the 
snows  to  claim  the  fulfillment.*' 

"  You  never  told  me  that,"  exclaimed  New- 
bold  sternly  and  again  addressing  the  woman 
rather  than  the  man. 

"  There  was  nothing  to  tell,"  she  answered 
quickly.  "  I  was  a  young  girl,  heart  free.  I  liked 
this  man,  perhaps  because  he  was  so  different 
from  those  to  whom  I  had  been  accustomed  and 
when  he  pressed  his  suit  upon  me,  I  told  him  the 
truth.  I  did  not  love  him,  I  did  not  know 
whether  I  might  grow  to  care  for  him  or  not;  if 
I  did,  I  should  marry  him  and  if  I  did  not  no 
power  on  earth  could  make  me.  And  now  —  I 
hate  him ! " 


348  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

She  flung  the  hard  and  bitter  words  at  him 
savagely. 

Armstrong  was  beside  himself  with  fury  at  her 
remark,  and  Newbold's  cool  indifference  to  him' 
personally  was  unendurable.  In  battle  such  as 
he  waged  he  had  the  mistaken  idea  that  anything 
was  fair.  He  could  not  really  tell  whether  it 
v/as  love  of  woman  or  hate  of  man  that  was  most 
dominant;  he  saw  at  once  the  state  of  affairs  be- 
tween the  two.  He  could  hurt  the  man  and  the 
woman  with  one  statement;  what  might  be  Its  ul- 
terior effect  he  did  not  stop  to  consider;  perhaps 
if  he  had  he  would  not  have  cared  greatly  then. 
He  realized  anyway  that  since  Newbold's  arrival 
his  chance  with  Enid  was  gone;  perhaps  whether 
Newbold  were  alive  or  dead  it  was  gone  forever, 
although  Armstrong  did  not  think  that,  he  was 
not  capable  of  thinking  very  far  into  the  future 
in  his  then  condition,  the  present  bulked  too  large 
for  that. 

"  I  did  not  think  after  that  kiss  in  the  road 
that  you  would  go  back  on  me  this  way,  Enid,'* 
he  said  quickly. 

"The  kiss  in  the  road  I  "  cried  Newbold,  star- 
ing again  at  the  woman. 

"  You  coward,"  repeated  she,  with  one  swift 
envenomed  glance  at  the  other  man  and  then  she 
turned  to  her  lover.     She  laid  her  hand  upon  his 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    349 

arm,  she  lifted  her  face  up  to  him.  "  As  God  is 
my  judge/'  she  cried,  her  voice  rising  with  the 
tragic  intensity  of  the  moment  and  thrilling  with 
indignant  protest,  ''  he  took  it  from  me  like  the 
thief  and  the  coward  he  was  and  he  tells  it  now 
like  the  liar  he  is.  We  were  riding  side  by  side, 
I  was  utterly  unsuspicious,  I  thought  him  a  gen- 
tleman, he  caught  me  and  kissed  me  before  I 
knew  it,  I  drove  him  from  me.     That's  all." 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Newbold  gently,  and  then, 
for  the  second  time,  he  addressed  himself  to  Arm- 
strong. "  You  came  doubtless  to  rescue  Miss 
Maitland,  and  in  so  far  your  purpose  was  ad- 
mirable and  you  deserve  thanks  and  respect,  but 
no  further.  This  is  my  cabin,  your  words  and 
your  conduct  render  you  unwelcome  here.  Miss 
Maitland  is  under  my  protection.  If  you  will 
come  outside  I  will  be  glad  to  talk  with  you  fur- 
ther." 

"  Under  your  protection?  "  sneered  Armstrong, 
completely  beside  himself.  "  After  a  month 
with  you  alone  I  take  It  she  needs  no  further  pro- 
tection." 

Newbold  did  not  leap  upon  the  man  for  that 
mordant  insult  to  the  woman,  his  approach  was 
slow,  relentless,  terrible.  Eight  or  ten  feet  sep- 
arated them.  Armstrong  met  him  half  way,  his 
impetuosity  was  the  greater,  he  sprang  forward. 


350  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

turned  about,  faced  the  full  light  from  the  nar- 
row window. 

"  Well,"  he  cried,  "  have  you  got  anything  to 
say  or  do  about  it?  " 

For  Newbold  had  stopped,  appalled.  He 
stood  staring  as  if  petrified;  recognition,  recollec- 
tion rushed  over  him.  Now  and  at  last  he  knew 
the  man.  The  face  that  confronted  him  was  the 
same  face  that  had  stared  out  at  him  from  the 
locket  he  had  taken  from  the  bruised  breast  of 
his  dead  wife,  which  had  been  a  mystery  to  him 
for  all  these  years. 

"  Well,"  tauntingly  asked  Armstrong  again, 
"what  are  you  waiting  for,  are  you  afraid?" 

From  Newbold's  belt  depended  a  holster  and 
a  heavy  revolver.  As  Armstrong  made  to  at- 
tack him  he  flashed  it  out  with  astonishing  quick- 
ness and  presented  it.  The  newcomer  was  un- 
armed, his  Winchester  leaned  against  the  wall  by 
his  fur  coat  and  he  had  no  pistol. 

"  If  you  move  a  step  forward  or  backward," 
said  Newbold  with  deadly  calm,  "  I  will  kill  you 
without  mercy." 

"  So  you'd  take  advantage  of  a  weaponless  man, 
would  you?"  sneered  Armstrong. 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,"  cried  the  woman, 
"  don't  kill  him." 

"  You  both  misjudge   me,"   was  the  answer^ 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    351' 

"  I  shall  take  no  advantage  of  this  man.  I  would 
disdain  to  do  so  if  it  were  necessary,  but  before 
the  last  resort  I  must  have  speech  with  him,  and 
this  is  the  only  way  in  which  I  can  keep  him  quiet 
for  a  moment,  if  as  I  suspect,  his  hate  measures 
with  mine." 

"  You  have  the  advantage,"  protested  Arm- 
strong. "  Say  your  say  and  get  it  over  with. 
I've  waited  all  these  years  for  a  chance  to  kill 
you  and  my  patience  Is  exhausted." 

Still  keeping  the  other  covered,  Newbold 
stepped  over  to  the  table,  pulled  out  the  drawer 
and  drew  from  it  the  locket.  Enid  remembered 
she  had  hastily  thrust  It  there  when  he  had  handed 
it  to  her  and  there  it  had  lain  unnoted  and  for- 
gotten. It  was  quite  evident  to  her  what  was 
toward  now.  Newbold  had  recognized  the 
other  man,  explanations  were  inevitable.  With 
his  left  hand  Newbold  sought  the  catch  of  the 
locket  and  pressed  the  spring.  In  two  steps  he 
faced  Armstrong  with  the  open  locket  thrust  to- 
ward him. 

"Your  picture?"  he  asked. 

"  Mine." 

"  Do  you  know  the  locket?  " 

"  I  gave  It  to  a  woman  named  Louise  Rosser 
five  or  six  years  ago." 

"  My  wife." 


352  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  Yes,  she  was  crazy  in  love  with  me  but  —  " 

With  diabolic  malice  Armstrong  left  the  sen- 
tence uncompleted.  The  inference  he  meant 
should  be  drawn  from  his  reticence  was  obvious. 

'*  I  took  it  from  her  dead  body,"  gritted  out 
Newbold. 

"  She  was  beside  herself  with  love  for  me,  an 
old  affair,  you  know,"  said  Armstrong  more  ex- 
plicitly, thinking  to  use  a  spear  with  a  double 
barb  to  pierce  the  woman's  and  the  man's  heart 
alike.  That  he  defamed  the  dead  was  of  no 
moment  then.  "  She  wanted  to  leave  you,"  he 
ran  on  glibly,  "  she  wanted  me  to  take  her  back 
and  —  " 

**  Untrue,"  burst  forth  from  Enid  Maitland's 
lips.  *'  A  slanderous,  dastardly,  cowardly  un- 
truth." 

But  the  men  paid  no  attention  to  her  in  their 
excitement,  perhaps  they  did  not  even  hear  her. 
Newbold  thrust  his  pistol  violently  forward. 

"  Would  you  murder  me  as  you  murdered  the 
woman?"  gibed  Armstrong  in  bitter  taunt. 

Then  Enid  Maitland  found  It  in  her  heart  to 
urge  Newbold  to  kill  him  where  he  stood,  but  she 
had  no  time  if  she  could  have  carried  out  her  de- 
sign, for  Newbold  flung  the  weapon  from  him 
and  the  next  moment  the  two  men  leaped  upon 
each  other,  straining,  struggling,  clawing,  battling 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    353 

like  savage  beasts,  each  seeking  to  clasp  his  fin- 
gers around  the  throat  of  the  other  and  then 
twist  and  crush  until  life  was  gone. 

Saying  nothing,  fighting  in  a  grim  silence  that 
was  terrible,  they  reeled  crashing  about  the  little 
room.  No  two  men  on  earth  could  have  been 
better  matched,  yet  Newbold  had  a  slight  advan- 
tage In  height  and  strength,  as  he  had  also  the 
advantage  in  simple  life  and  splendid  condition. 
Armstrong's  hate  and  fierce  temper  counterbal- 
anced these  at  first  and  with  arms  locked  and  legs 
twined,  with  teeth  clenched  and  eyes  blinded  and 
pulses  throbbing  and  hearts  beating,  they  strove 
together. 

The  woman  shrank  back  against  the  wall 
and  stared  frightened.  She  feared  for  her  lover, 
she  feared  for  herself.  Strange  primitive  feel- 
ings throbbed  in  her  veins.  It  was  an  old  sfitua- 
tion,  when  two  male  animals  fought  for  supremacy 
and  the  ownership  of  a  female,  whose  destiny 
was  entirely  removed  from  her  own  hands. 

Armstrong  had  shown  himself  in  his  true  col- 
ors at  last.  She  would  have  nothing  to  hope  from 
him  if  he  were  the  victor  and  she  even  wondered 
in  terror  what  might  happen  to  her  if  the  man 
she  loved  triumphed  after  the  passions  aroused 
in  such  a  battle.  She  grew  sick  and  giddy,  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell,  her  breath  came  fast  as  she 


2S4^  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

followed  the  panting,  struggling,  clinging,  grind- 
ing figures  about  the  room. 

At  first  there  had  been  no  advantage  to  either, 
but  now  after  five  minutes  —  or  was  it  hours? — ? 
of  fierce  fighting,  the  strength  and  superior  con- 
dition of  her  lover  began  to  tell.  He  was  forcing 
the  other  backward.  Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  foot 
by  foot,  step  by  step,  he  mastered  him.  The 
two  intertwining  figures  were  broadside  to  her 
now,  she  could  see  their  faces  inflamed  by  the  lust 
of  the  battle,  engorged,  blood  red  with  hate  and 
fury.  There  was  a  look  of  exultation  in  one 
and  the  shadow  of  approaching  disaster  in  the 
other.  But  the  consciousness  that  he  was  being 
mastered  ever  so  little  only  increased  Armstrong's 
determination  and  he  fought  back  with  the  frenzy, 
the  strength  of  a  maddened  gorilla,  and  again 
for  a  space  the  issue  was  in  doubt.  But  not  for 
long. 

The  table,  a  heavy,  cumbersome,  four-legged 
affair,  solid  almost  as  a  rock,  stood  in  the  way. 
Newbold  at  last  backed  Armstrong  up  against  it 
and  by  superhuman  effort  bent  him  over  it,  held 
him  with  one  arm  and  using  the  table  as  a  sup- 
port, wrenched  his  left  hand  free,  and  sunk  his 
fingers  around  the  other's  throat.  It  was  all  up 
with  Armstrong.  It  was  only  a  question  of  time 
now. 


It  was  all  up  with  Armstrong 


V>i^ 


Last  Resort  of  Kings  and  Men    355 

"  Now/'  Newbold  guttered  out  hoarsely,  "  you 
slandered  the  dead  woman  I  married,  and  you  in- 
sulted the  living  one  I  love.  Take  back  what 
you  said  before  you  die." 

"  I  forgive  him,"  cried  Enid  Maitland. 
"  Oh,  don't  kill  him  before  my  eyes." 

Armstrong  was  past  speech.  The  inveteracy 
of  his  hatred  could  be  seen  even  in  his  fast  glaz- 
ing eyes,  the  indomltableness  of  his  purpose  yet 
spoke  in  the  negative  shake  of  his  head.  He 
could  die,  but  he  would  die  in  his  hate  and  in  his 
purpose. 

Enid  ran  to  the  two,  she  grappled  Newbold's 
arm  with  both  her  own  and  strove  with  all  her 
might  to  tear  it  away  from  the  other's  throat. 
Her  lover  paid  no  more  attention  to  her  than  if 
a  summer  breeze  had  touched  him.  Armstrong 
grew  black  in  the  face,  his  limbs  relaxed,  another 
second  or  two  and  it  would  have  been  over  with 
him. 

Once  more  the  door  was  thrown  open,  through 
it  two  snow  covered  men  entered.  One  swift 
glance  told  them  all,  one  of  them  at  least  had  ex- 
pected it.  On  the  one  side  Kirkby,  on  the  other 
Maitland,  tore  Newbold  away  from  his  prey  just 
in  time  to  save  Armstrong's  life.  Indeed  the  lat- 
ter was  so  far  gone  that  he  fell  from  the  table  to 
the  floor  unconscious,  choking,  almost  dying.     It 


35^  .The  Chalice  op  Courage 

was  Enid  Maltland  who  received  his  head  in  her 
arms  and  helped  bring  him  back  to  life  while  the 
panting  Newbold  stood  staring  dully  at  the 
woman  he  loved  and  the  man  he  hated  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   BECOMING  END 

"  Why  did  you  interfere?  "  when  at  last  he  got 
his  breath  again,  asked  Newbold  of  Maltland  who 
still  held  him  firmly  although  restraint  was  now 
unnecessary,  the  heat  and  fire  of  his  passion  being 
somewhat  gone  out  of  him.  "  I  meant  to  kill 
him." 

^*  He'd  oughter  die  sure  nuff,"  drawled  old 
Kirkby,  rising  from  where  he  had  been  kneeling 
by  Armstrong's  side,  "but  I  don't  know's  how 
you're  bound  to  be  his  executioner.  He's  all  right 
now,  Miss  Enid,"  said  the  old  man.  *'  Here  " 
—  he  took  a  pillow  from  the  bunk  and  slipped  it 
under  his  head  and  then  extending  his  hands  he 
lifted  the  excited  almost  distraught  woman  to  her 
feet  —  "  tain't  fittin'  for  you  to  tend  on  him." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Enid,  her  limbs  trembling, 
the  blood  flowing  away  from  her  heart,  her  face 
deathly  white,  fighting  against  the  faintness  that 
came  with  the  reaction,  while  old  Kirkby  sup- 
ported and  encouraged  her.  "  I  thank  God  you 
came.  I  don't  know  what  would  have  happened 
If  you  had  not." 

357 


358  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"Has  this  man  mistreated  you?"  asked  Rob- 
ert Maitland,  suddenly  tightening  his  grip  upon 
his  hard  breathing  but  unresisting  passive  pris- 
oner. 

"  No,  no,"  answered  his  niece.  "  He  has  been 
everything  that  a  man  should  be." 

"  And  Armstrong?  "   continued  her  uncle. 

"  No,  not  even  he." 

"I  came  In  time,  thank  God  I"  ejaculated 
Newbold. 

By  this  time  Armstrong  had  recovered  con- 
sciousness. To  his  other  causes  for  hatred  were 
now  added  chagrin,  mortification,  shame.  He 
had  been  overcome.  He  would  have  been  a  dead 
man  and  by  Newbold's  hands  if  the  others  had 
not  interfered.  He  almost  wished  they  had  let 
his  enemy  alone.  Well,  he  had  lost  everything 
but  a  chance  for  revenge  on  them  all. 

"  She  has  been  alone  here  with  this  man  in  this 
cabin  for  a  month,"  he  said  thickly.  "  I  was 
willing  to  take  her  in  spite  of  that,  but  —  " 

"  He  made  that  damned  suggestion  before," 
cried  Newbold,  his  rage  returning.  "  I  don't 
know  who  you  are — " 

*'  My  name  is  Robert  Maitland,  and  I  am  this 
girl's  uncle." 

''  Well,  If  you  were  her  father,  I  could  only 
swear  — " 


The  Becoming  End  359 

"  It  Isn't  necessary  to  swear  anything,'*  an- 
swered Maltland  serenely.  *'  I  know  this  child. 
And   I   believe   I'm   beginning  to   find   out  this 


man." 


"  Thank  you,  Uncle  Robert,"  said  Enid  grate- 
fully, coming  nearer  to  him  as  she  spoke.  **  No 
man  could  have  done  more  for  me  than  Mr.  New- 
bold  has,  and  no  one  could  have  been  more  con- 
siderate of  me.  As  for  you,"  she  turned  on 
Armstrong,  who  now  slowly  got  to  his  feet,  "  your 
insinuations  against  me  are  on  a  par  with  your 
charges  against  the  dead  woman,  beneath  con- 
tempt." 

"What  did  he  say  about  her?"  asked  Old 
Kirkby. 

**  You  know  my  story?  "  asked  Newbold. 

"  Yes." 

"  He  said  that  my  wife  had  been  unfaithful 
to  me  —  with  him  —  and  that  he  had  refused  to 
take  her  back." 

"  And  It  was  true,"  snarled  Armstrong. 

It  was  all  Maltland  could  do  to  check  New- 
hold's  rush,  but  in  the  end  It  was  old  Kirkby  who 
most  effectively  Interposed. 

"  That's  a  damned  He,"  he  said  quietly  with 
his  usual  drawling  voice. 

*'  You  can  say  so,"  laughed  Armstrong,  "  but 
that  doesn't  alter  the  facts." 


360  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  An'  I  can  prove  it,"  answered  the  old  man 
triumphantly. 

It  was  coming,  the  secret  that  she  had  tried 
to  conceal  was  about  to  be  revealed,  thought  Enid. 
She  made  a  movement  toward  the  old  man.  She 
opened  her  mouth  to  bid  him  be  silent  and  then 
stopped.  It  would  be  useless  she  knew.  The  de- 
termination was  no  longer  hers.  The  direction 
of  affairs  had  been  withdrawn  from  her.  After 
all  it  was  better  that  the  unloving  wife  should  be 
proved  faithful,  even  if  her  husband's  cherished 
memory  of  her  love  for  him  had  to  be  destroyed 
thereby.  Helpless  she  listened  knowing  full  well 
what  the  old  frontiersman's  next  word  would  be. 

*' Prove  it!"  mocked  Armstrong.     "How?" 

**  By  your  own  hand,  out  of  your  own  mouth, 
you  dog,"  thundered  old  Kirkby.  "  Miss  Enid, 
w'ere  are  them  letters  I  give  you  ?  " 

"I  —  I  — "  faltered  the  girl,  but  there  was  no 
escape  from  the  keen  glance  of  the  old  man,  her 
hand  went  to  the  bosom  of  her  tunic. 

"  Letters !  "  exclaimed  Armstrong.  "  What 
letters?" 

*'  These,"  answered  Enid  Maitland,  holding 
up  the  packet. 

Armstrong  reached  for  them  but  Kirkby  again 
interposed. 

**  No,  you  don't,"  he  said  dryly.     "  Them  ain't 


The  Becoming  End  361 

for  your  eyes  yit.  Mr.  Newbold,  I  found  them 
letters  on  the  little  shelf  w'ere  your  wife  first 
struck  w'en  she  fell  over  onto  the  butte  w'ere  she 
died.  I  figgered  out  her  dress  was  tore  open 
there  an'  them  letters  she  was  carryin'  fell  out 
an'  lodged  there.  We  had  ropes  an'  we  went 
down  over  the  rocks  that  way.  I  went  first  an' 
I  picked  'em  up.  I  never  told  nobody  about  it 
an'  I  never  showed  'em  to  a  single  human 
bein'  until  I  give  'em  to  Miss  Maitland  at  the 
camp." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Newbold,  taking  the  let- 
ters. 

"  There  wasn't  no  good  tellin'  nobody  then,  jest 
fer  the  sake  o'  stirrin'  up  trouble." 

"  But  why  did  you  give  them  to  her  at  last?  " 

"  Because  I  was  afeered  she  might  fall  in  love 
with  Armstrong.  I  supposed  she'd  know  his 
writin',  but  w'en  she  didn't  I  jest  let  her  keep 
'em  anyway.  I  knowed  it'd  all  come  out  some- 
how; there  is  a  God  above  us  in  spite  of  all  the 
damned  scoundrels  on  earth  like  this  un." 

"  Are  these  letters  addressed  to  my  dead 
wife?"  asked  Newbold. 

"They  are,"  answered  Enid  Maitland;  "look 
and  see." 

"And  did  Mr.  Armstrong  write  them?" 

"  He'll  deny  it,  I  suppose,"  answered  Kirkby. 


362  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

**  But  I  am  familiar  with  his  handwriting," 
said  Maitland. 

Taking  the  still  unopened  packet  from  New- 
bold  he  opened  it,  examined  one  of  the  letters 
and  handed  them  all  back. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  said.  "  It's 
Armstrong's  hand,  I'll  swear  to  it." 

"  Oh,  I'll  acknowledge  them,"  said  Armstrong, 
seeing  the  absolute  futility  of  further  denial.  He 
had  forgotten  all  about  the  letters.  He  had  not 
dreamed  they  were  in  existence.  "  You've  got 
me  beat  between  you,  the  cards  are  stacked 
against  me,  I've  done  my  damndest — "  and  in- 
deed that  was  true. 

Well,  he  had  played  a  great  game,  battling  for 
a  high  stake  he  had  stuck  at  nothing.  A  career 
in  which  some  good  had  mingled  with  much  bad 
was  now  at  an  end.  He  had  lost  utterly,  would 
he  show  himself  a  good  loser? 

"  Mr.  Armstrong,"  said  Newbold,  quietly  ex- 
tending his  hand,  "  here  are  your  letters." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  reading  letters  ad- 
dressed to  other  people  without  permission  and 
when  the  recipient  of  them  is  dead  long  since,  I 
am  doubly  bound." 

**  You're  a  damned  fool,"  cried  Armstrong  con- 
temptuously. 


The  Becoming  End  363 

"  That  kind  of  a  charge  from  your  kind  of  a 
man  is  perhaps  the  highest  compliment  you  could 
pay  me.  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  ever  get 
rid  of  the  doubt  you  have  tried  to  lodge  in  my 
soul  about  my  dead  wife,  but  — '* 

*'  There  ain't  no  doubt  about  it,"  protested  old 
KIrkby  earnestly.  *'  I've  read  them  letters  a  hun- 
dred times  over,  havin'  no  scruples  whatsomever, 
an'  in  every  one  of  'em  he  was  beggln'  an'  pleadln' 
with  her  to  go  away  with  him  an'  fightin'  her  re- 
fusal to  do  It.  I  guess  I've  got  to  admit  that  she 
didn't  love  you  none,  Newbold,  an'  she  did  love 
this  here  wuthless  Armstrong,  but  for  the  sake  of 
her  reputation  I'll  prove  to  you  all  from  them  let- 
ters of  hlsn,  from  his  own  words,  that  there  didn't 
live  a  cleaner  hearted,  more  virtuous,  upright  fee- 
male  than  that  there  wife  of  yourn,  even  if  she 
didn't  love  you.  It's  God's  truth  an'  you  kin 
take  It  from  me." 

"  Mr.  Armstrong,"  cried  Enid  Maltland,  inter- 
posing at  this  juncture,  *'  not  very  long  ago  I 
told  you  I  liked  you  better  than  any  man  I  had 
ever  seen,  I  thought  perhaps  I  might  have  loved 
you,  and  that  was  true.  You  have  played 
the  coward's  part  and  the  liar's  part  In  this 
room  ■ —  " 

"  Did  I  fight  him  like  a  coward?  "  asked  Arm- 
strong. 


264'         The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  No,"  answered  Newbold  for  her,  remember- 
ing the  struggle,  "  you  fought  like  a  man." 

Singular  perversion  of  language  and  thought 
there !  If  two  struggled  like  wild  beasts  that  was 
fighting  like  men  I 

*'  But  let  that  pass,"  continued  the  woman.  "  I 
don't  deny  your  physical  courage,  but  I  am  going 
to  appeal  to  another  kind  of  a  courage  which  I 
believe  you  possess.  You  have  showed  your  evil 
side  here  in  this  room,  but  I  don't  believe  that's 
the  only  side  you  have,  else  I  couldn't  even  have 
liked  you  in  the  past.  You  have  made  a  charge 
against  two  women,  one  dead  and  one  living.  It 
makes  little  difference  what  you  say  about  me;  I 
need  no  defense  and  no  justification  in  the  eyes  of 
those  here  who  love  me  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
world  I  don't  care.  But  you  have  slain  this  man's 
confidence  in  a  woman  he  once  loved,  and  whom 
he  thought  loved  him.  As  you  are  a  man,  tell 
him  that  it  was  a  lie  and  that  she  was  innocent  of 
anything  else  although  she  did  love  you." 

What  a  singular  situation,  an  observer  who 
knew  all  might  have  reflected?  Here  was  Enid 
Maitland  pleading  for  the  good  name  of  the 
woman  who  had  married  the  man  she  now  loved, 
and  whom  by  rights  she  should  have  jealously 
hated. 

**  You  ask  me  more  than  I  can,"  faltered  Arm- 


The  Becoming  End       '        365 

strong,  yet  greatly  moved  by  this  touching  appeal 
to  his  better  self. 

**  Let  him  speak  no  word,"  protested  Newbold 
quickly.     **  I  wouldn't  believe  him  on  his  oath." 

**  Steady  now,  steady,"  Interposed  Kirkby  with 
his  frontier  Instinct  for  fair  play.  "  The  man's 
down,  Newbold,  don't  hit  him  now." 

"  Give  him  a  chance,"  added  Maltland  ear- 
nestly. 

**  You  would  not  believe  me,  eh?"  laughed 
Armstrong  horribly;  "  well  then  this  Is  what  I  say, 
whether  it  Is  true  or  a  He  you  can  be  the  judge.'* 

What  was  he  about  to  say?  They  all  recog- 
nized Instinctively  that  his  forthcoming  deliver- 
ance would  be  a  final  one.  Would  good  or  evil 
dominate  him  now?  Enid  Maltland  had  made 
her  plea  and  It  had  been  a  powerful  one;  the  man 
did  truly  love  the  woman  who  urged  him,  there 
was  nothing  left  for  him  but  a  chance  that  she 
should  think  a  little  better  of  him  than  he  merited, 
he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  resources.  And 
Enid  Maltland  spoke  again  as  he  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  think,  think  before  you  speak,"  she  cried. 

"  If  I  thought,"  answered  Armstrong  quickly, 
"  I  should  go  mad.  Newbold,  your  wife  was  as 
pure  as  the  snow.  That  she  loved  me  I  cannot  and 
will  not  deny.  She  married  you  In  a  fit  of  jealousy 
and  anger  after  a  quarrel  between  us  In  which  I 


366  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

was  to  blame,  and  when  I  came  back  to  the  camp 
in  your  absence  I  strove  to  make  it  up  and  used 
every  argument  that  I  possessed  to  get  her  to 
leave  you  and  to  go  with  me.  Although  she  had 
no  love  for  you  she  was  too  good  and  too  true  a. 
woman  for  that.  Now  youVe  got  the  truth, 
damn  you;  believe  it  or  not  as  you  like.  Miss 
Maltland,"  he  added  swiftly,  "  if  I  had  met  you 
sooner,  I  might  have  been  a  better  man.  Good- 
by." 

He  turned  suddenly  and  none  preventing,  in- 
deed It  was  not  possible,  he  ran  to  the  outer  door; 
as  he  did  so  his  hand  snatched  something  that  lay 
on  the  chest  of  drawers.  There  was  a  flash  of 
light  as  he  drew  In  his  arm  but  none  saw  what  It 
was.  In  a  few  seconds  he  was  outside  the  door. 
The  table  was  between  old  KIrkby  and  the  exit, 
Maltland  and  Newbold  were  nearest.  The  old 
man  came  to  his  senses  first. 

"  After  him,"  he  cried,  "  he  means  ^—  " 

But  before  anybody  could  stir,  the  dull  report 
of  a  pistol  came  through  the  open  door! 

They  found  Armstrong  lying  on  his  back  In 
the  snowy  path,  his  face  as  white  as  the  drift  that 
pillowed  his  head,  Newbold's  heavy  revolver  still 
clutched  In  his  right  hand  and  a  bloody,  welling 
smudge  on  his  left  breast  over  his  heart.  It  was 
the  woman  who  broke  the  silence. 


The  Becoming  End  367 

"  Oh,"  she  sobbed,  ''  it  can't  be  ^  " 

"  Dead,''  said  Maitland  solemnly. 

"  And  It  might  have  been  by  my  Hand,"  mut- 
tered Newbold  to  himself  in  horror. 

"  He'll  never  cause  no  more  trouble  to  nobody 
in  this  world,  Miss  Enid  an'  gents,"  said  old 
Kirkby  gravely.  "  Well,  he  was  a  damned  fool 
an'  a  damned  villain  in  some  ways,"  continued 
the  old  frontiersman  reflectively  in  the  silence 
broken  otherwise  only  by  the  woman's  sobbing 
breaths,  "but  he  had  some  of  the  qualities  that 
go  to  make  a  man,  an'  I  ain't  doubtin'  but  what 
them  last  words  of  hisn  was  mighty  near  true. 
Ef  he  had  met  a  gal  like  you  earlier  in  his  life  he 
mought  have  been  a  different  man." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  DRAUGHT  OF  JOYj 

jThe  great  library  was  the  prettiest  room  in  Rob- 
ert Maitland's  magnificent  mansion  in  Denver's 
most  favored  residence  section.  It  was  a  long, 
low  studded  room  with  a  heavy  beamed  ceiling. 
The  low  book  cases,  about  five  feet  high,  ran  be- 
tween all  the  windows  and  doors  on  all  sides  of 
the  room.  At  one  end  there  was  a  huge  open 
fireplace  built  of  rough  stone,  and  as  it  was  win- 
ter a  cheerful  fire  of  logs  blazed  on  the  hearth. 
It  was  a  man's  room  preeminently.  The  draw- 
ing room  across  the  hall  was  Mrs.  Maitland's 
domain,  but  the  library  reflected  her  husband's 
picturesque  If  somewhat  erratic  taste.  On  the 
walls  there  were  pictures  of  the  west  by  Reming- 
ton, Marchand,  Dunton,  Dixon  and  others,  and 
to  set  them  off  finely  mounted  heads  of  bear  and 
deer  and  buffalo.  Swords  and  other  arms  stood 
here  and  there.  The  writing  table  was  massive 
and  the  chairs  easy,  comfortable  and  inviting. 
The  floor  was  strewn  with  robes  and  rugs.  From 
the  windows  facing  westward,  since  the  house  was 

368 


The  Draught  of  Joy  369: 

set  ori  a  high  hill,  one  could  see  the  great  rampart 
of  the  range. 

There  were  three  men  in  the  room  on  that  bril- 
liant morning  early  in  January  something  like  a 
month  after  these  adventures  in  the  mountains 
which  have  been  so  veraclously  set  forth.  Two 
of  them  were  the  brothers  Maitland,  the  third  was 
Newbold. 

The  shock  produced  upon  Enid  Maitland  by 
the  death  of  Armstrong,  together  with  the  tre- 
mendous episodes  that  had  preceded  It,  had  ut- 
terly prostrated  her.  They  had  spent  the  night 
at  the  hut  in  the  mountains  and  had  decided  that 
the  woman  must  be  taken  back  to  the  setdements 
in  some  way  at  all  hazards. 

The  wit  of  old  KIrkby  had  effected  a  solution 
of  the  problem.  Using  a  means  certainly  as  old  as 
Napoleon  and  the  passage  of  his  cannon  over  the 
Great  St.  Bernard  —  and  perhaps  as  old  as  Han- 
nibal!—  they  had  made  a  rude  sled  from  the 
trunk  of  a  pine  which  they  hollowed  out  and  pro- 
vided with  a  back  and  runners.  There  was  no 
lack  of  fur  robes  and  blankets  for  her  comfort. 

Wherever  it  was  practicable  the  three  men 
hitched  themselves  to  the  sled  with  ropes  and 
dragged  It  and  Enid  over  the  snow.  Of  course 
for  miles  down  the  caiion  It  was  impossible  to  use 
the  sled.     SVhen  the  way  was  comparatively  easy 


370i  The  Chalice  oi^  Courage 

the  woman  supported  by  the  two  men,  Newbold 
and  Maitland,  made  shift  to  get  along  afoot. 
When  It  became  too  difficult  for  her,  Newbold 
picked  her  up  as  he  had  done  before  and  assisted 
by  Maitland  carried  her  bodily  to  the  next  resting 
place.  At  these  times  Kirkby  looked  after  the 
sled. 

They  had  managed  to  reach  the  temporary  hut 
in  the  old  camp  the  first  night  and  rested  there. 
They  gathered  up  their  sleeping  bags  and  tents 
and  resumed  their  journey  in  the  morning.  They 
were  strong  men,  and,  save  for  old  Kirkby,  young. 
It  was  a  desperate  endeavor  but  they  carried  it 
through. 

When  they  hit  the  open  trails  the  sledding  was 
easy  and  they  made  great  progress.  After  a 
week  of  terrific  going  they  struck  the  railroad  and 
the  next  day  found  them  all  safe  in  Maitland's 
house  in  Denver. 

To  Mr.  Stephen  Maitland  his  daughter  was  as 
one  who  had  risen  from  the  dead.  And  indeed 
when  he  first  saw  her  she  looked  like  death  itself. 
No  one  had  known  how  terrible  that  journey  had 
been  to  the  woman.  Her  three  faithful  attend- 
ants had  surmised  something,  but  in  spite  of  all 
even  they  did  not  realize  that  in  these  last  days 
she  had  been  sustained  only  by  the  most  violent 
effort  of  her  will.     She  had  no  sooner  reached  the 


The  Draught  of  Joy  371 

house,  greeted  her  father,  her  aunt  and  the  chil- 
dren than  she  collapsed  utterly. 

The  wonder  was,  said  the  physician,  not  that 
she  did  it  then  but  that  she  had  not  done  it  before. 
For  a  short  time  it  appeared  as  if  her  illness 
might  be  serious,  but  youth,  vigor,  a  strong  body 
and  a  good  constitution,  a  heart  now  free  from 
care  and  apprehension  and  a  great  desire  to  live 
and  love  and  be  loved,  worked  wonders. 

Newbold  had  enjoyed  no  opportunity  for  pri- 
vate conversation  with  the  woman  he  loved,  which 
was  perhaps  just  as  well.  He  had  the  task  of 
readjusting  himself  to  changed  conditions;  not 
only  to  a  different  environment,  but  to  strange 
and  unusual  departures  from  his  long  cherished 
view  points. 

He  could  no  longer  doubt  Armstrong's  final  tes- 
timony to  the  purity  of  his  wife,  although  he  had 
burned  the  letters  unread,  and  by  the  same  token 
he  could  no  longer  cherish  the  dream  that  she  had 
loved  him  and  him  alone.  Those  words  that  had 
preceded  that  pistol  shot  had  made  it  possible  for 
him  to  take  Enid  Maitland  as  his  wife  without 
doing  violence  to  his  sense  of  honor  or  his  self- 
respect.  Armstrong  had  made  that  much  repara- 
tion. And  Newbold  could  not  doubt  that  the 
other  had  known  what  would  be  the  result  of  his 
speech  and  had  chosen  his  words   deliberately. 


372  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

Score  that  last  action  to  his  credit.  He  was  a 
sensitive  man,  however;  he  realized  the  brutal  and 
beastlike  part  he  and  Armstrong  had  both  played 
before  this  woman  they  both  loved,  how  they  had 
battled  like  savage  animals  and  how  but  for  a 
lucky  interposition  he  would  have  added  murder 
to  his  other  disabilities. 

He  was  honest  enough  to  say  to  himself  that 
he  would  have  done  the  same  thing  over  under 
the  same  circumstances,  but  that  did  not  absolve 
his  conscience.  He  did  not  know  how  the  woman 
looked  at  the  transaction  or  looked  at  him,  for  he 
had  not  enjoyed  one  moment  alone  with  her  to 
enable  him  to  find  out. 

They  had  burled  Armstrong  in  the  snow,  Rob- 
ert Maltland  saying  over  him  a  brief  but  fervent 
petition  in  which  even  Newbold  joined.  Enid 
Maitland  herself  had  repeated  eloquently  to  her 
Uncle  and  old  KIrkby  that  night  before  the  fire 
the  story  of  her  rescue  from  the  flood  by  this  man, 
thow  he  had  carried  her  In  the  storm  to  the  hut 
and  how  he  had  treated  her  since,  and  Maltland 
had  afterwards  repeated  her  account  to  his  brother 
in  Denver. 

Maltland  had  insisted  that  Newbold  share  his 
hospitality,  but  that  young  man  had  refused. 
KIrkby  had  a  little  place  not  far  from  Denver 
and  easily  accessible  to  It  and  the  old  man  had 


The  Draught  of  Joy  -373 

gladly  taken  the  younger  one  with  him.  New- 
bold  had  been  In  a  fever  of  anxiety  over  Enid 
Maitland's  Illness,  but  his  alarm  had  soon  beeii 
(dispelled  by  the  physician's  assurance  and  there 
was  nothing  now  left  for  him  but  to  wait  until 
she  could  see  him.  He  inquired  for  her  morning 
and  evening  at  the  great  house  on  the  hill,  he  kept 
her  room  a  bower  of  beauty  with  priceless  blos- 
soms, but  he  had  sent  no  word. 

Robert  Maltland  had  promised  to  let  him  know,^ 
however,  so  soon  as  Enid  could  see  him  and  it 
was  In  pursuance  of  a  telephone  message  that  he 
was  in  the  library  that  morning. 

He  had  not  yet  become  accustomed  to  the 
world,  he  had  lived  so  long  alone  that  he  had 
grown  somewhat  shy  and  retiring,  the  habits  and 
customs  of  years  were  not  to  be  lightly  thrown 
aside  In  a  week  or  a  month.  He  had  sought  no 
interview  with  Enid's  father  heretofore,  indeed 
had  rather  avoided  it,  but  on  this  morning  he  had 
asked  for  it,  and  when  Robert  Maltland  would 
have  withdrawn  he  begged  him  to  remain. 

"  Mr.  Maltland,"  Newbold  began,  "  I  presume 
that  you  know  my  unfortunate  history." 

"  I  have  heard  the  general  outlines  of  it,  sir, 
'from  my  brother  and  others,"  answered  the  other 
kindly. 

"  I  need  not  dwell  upon  it  further  then,     Al- 


374  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

thougE  my  hair  is  tinged  with  gray  and  doubtless 
I  look  much  older,  I  was  only  twenty-eight  on  my 
last  birthday.  I  was  not  born  In  this  section  of 
the  country,  my  home  was  in  Baltimore." 

"  Do  you  by  any  chance  belong  to  the  Mary- 
land Newbolds,  sir?'* 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  They  are  distantly  related  to  a  most  excellent 
family  of  the  same  name  In  Philadelphia,  I  be- 
lieve? " 

"  I  Have  always  understood  that  to  be  the 
truth." 

"  Ah,  a  very  satisfactory  connection  Indeed," 
said  Stephen  Maltland  with  no  little  satisfaction. 
"  Proceed,  sir." 

"  There  Is  nothing  much  else  to  say  about  my- 
self, except  that  I  love  your  daughter  and  with 
your  permission  I  want  her  for  my  wife." 

Mr.  Stephen  Maltland  had  thought  long  and 
seriously  over  the  state  of  affairs.  He  had  pro- 
posed In  his  desperation  to  give  Enid's  hand  to 
Armstrong  If  he  found  her.  It  had  been  Im- 
possible to  keep  secret  the  story  of  her  adventure, 
her  rescue  and  the  death  of  Armstrong.  It  was 
natural  and  Inevitable  that  gossip  should  have 
busied  Itself  with  her  name.  It  would  therefore 
have  been  somewhat  difficult  for  Mr.  Maltland 
to  have  withheld  his  consent  to  her  marriage  to 


The  Draught  of  Joy  375 

ialmost  any  reputable  man  who  had  been  thrown 
so  intimately  with  her,  but  when  the  man  was  so 
unexceptionably  born  and  bred  as  Newbold,  what 
had  appeared  as  a  more  or  less  disagreeable  duty, 
almost  an  imperative  imposition,  became  a 
pleasure! 

Mr.  Maitland  was  no  bad  judge  oT  men  when 
his  prejudices  were  not  rampant  and  he  looked 
with  much  satisfaction  on  the  fine,  clean  limbed, 
clear  eyed,  vigorous  man  who  was  at  present  suing 
for  his  daughter's  hand.  Newbold  had  shaved 
his  beard  and  had  cropped  close  his  mustache, 
he  was  dressed  In  the  habits  of  civilization  and  he 
was  almost  metamorphosed.  His  shyness  wore 
away  as  he  talked  and  his  Inherited  ease  of  man- 
ner and  his  birthright  of  good  breeding  came  back 
to  him  and  sat  easily  upon  him. 

Under  the  circumstances  the  very  best  thing 
that  could  happen  would  be  a  marriage  between 
the  two ;  indeed,  to  be  quite  honest,  Mr.  Stephen 
Maitland  would  have  felt  that  perhaps  under  any 
circumstances  his  daughter  could  do  no  better  than 
commit  herself  to  a  man  like  this. 

"  I  shall  never  attempt,^'  he  said  at  last,  "  to 
constrain  my  daughter.  I  think  I  have  learned 
something  by  my  touch  with  this  life  here,  per- 
haps we  of  Philadelphia  need  a  little  broadening 
in  airs  more  free.     I  am  sure  that  she  would  never 


378  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

give  her  hand  without  her  heart,  and  therefore, 
she  must  decide  this  matter  herself.  From  her 
own  lips  you  shall  have  your  answer.'* 

"But  you,  sir;  I  confess  that  I  should  feel 
easier  and  happier  If  I  had  your  sanction  and  ap- 
proval." 

"Steve,"  said  Mr.  Robert  Maltland,  as  the 
other  hesitated,  not  because  he  Intended  to  refuse 
but  because  he  was  loath  to  say  the  word  that  so 
far  as  he  was  concerned  would  give  his  daughter 
into  another  man's  keeping,  "  I  think  you  can  trust 
Newbold.  There  are  men  here  who  knew  him 
years  ago;  there  is  abundant  evidence  and  testi- 
mony as  to  his  qualities ;  I  vouch  for  him." 

"  Robert,"  answered  his  brother,  "  I  need  no 
such  testimony;  the  way  in  which  he  saved  Enid, 
the  way  he  comported  himself  during  that  period 
of  Isolation  with  her,  his  present  bearing  —  In 
short,  sir.  If  a  father  Is  ever  glad  to  give  away  his 
daughter,  I  might  say  that  I  should  be  glad  to 
entrust  her  to  you.  I  believe  you  to  be  a  man  of 
honor  and  a  gentleman,  your  family  is  almost  as 
old  as  my  own,  as  for  the  disparity  in  our  for- 
tunes, I  can  easily  remedy  that." 

Newbold  smiled  at  Enid's  father,  but  it  was  a' 
pleasant  smile,  albeit  with  a  trace  of  mockery  and 
a  trace  of  triumph  In  It. 

"  Mr.  Maltland  I  am  more  grateful  to  you 
than  I  can  say  for  your  consent  and  approval 


The  Draught  of.  Joy  377 

which  I  shall  do  my  best  to  merit.  I  think  I  may 
claim  to  have  won  your  daughter's  heart,  to  have 
added  to  that  your  sanction  completes  my  happi- 
ness. As  for  the  disparity  In  our  fortunes,  while 
your  generosity  touches  me  profoundly,  I  hardly 
think  that  you  need  be  under  any  uneasiness  as  to 
our  material  welfare." 

**What  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  am  a  mining  engineer,  sir ;  I  didn't  live  five 
years  alone  in  the  mountains  of  Colorado  for 
nothing." 

"  Pray  explain  yourself,  sir." 

"  Did  you  find  gold  In  the  hills?"  asked  Rob- 
ert Maitland,  quicker  to  understand. 

"  The  richest  veins  on  the  continent,"  answered 
Newbold. 

**And  nobody  knows  anything  about  It?" 

"Not  a  soul." 

"  Have  you  located  the  claims  ?  " 

"  Only  one." 

"  We'll  go  back  as  soon  as  the  snow  melts," 
said  the  younger  Maitland,  **  and  take  them  up. 
You  are  sure?  " 

"  Absolutely." 

"But  I  don't  quite  understand?"  queried  Mr. 
Stephen  Maitland. 

*'  He  means,"  said  his  brother,  "  that  he  has 
discovered  gold." 

**  And  silver  too,"  interposed  Newbold. 


378  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"  In  unlimited  quantities,''  continued  the  other 
Maitland. 

"lYour  daughter  will  have  more  money  than 
she  knows  what  to  do  with,  sir,"  smiled  Newbold. 

"  God  bless  me  I  "  exclaimed  the  Philadelphian. 

"And  that,  whether  she  marries  me  or  not, 
for  the  richest  claim  of  all  is  to  be  taken  out  in 
her  name,"  added  her  lover. 

Mr.  Stephen  Maidand  shooE  the  other  by  the 
hand  vigorously. 

**  I  congratulate  you,"  He  said,  "  you  have 
beaten  me  on  all  points.  I  must  therefore  regard 
you  as  the  most  eligible  of  suitors.  Gold  in  these 
mountains,  well,  well  I  " 

*'  And  may  I  see  your  daughter  and  plead  my 
cause  in  person,  sir?"  asked  Newbold. 

*'  Certainly,  certainly.  Robert,  will  you  oblige 
me^" 

In  compliance  with  his  brother's  gesture,  Rob- 
ert Maitland  touched  the  bell  and  bade  the  an- 
swering servant  ask  Miss  Maitland  to  come  down 
to  the  library. 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Stephen  Maitland  as  the 
servant  closed  the  door,  "  you  and  I  would  best 
leave  the  young  people  alone,  eh,  Robert?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  answered  the  younger  and 
opening  the  door  again  the  two  older  men  went 
out  leaving  Newbold  alone. 


[The  Draught  of  Joy  379 

He  heard  a  soft  step  on  the  stair  in  the  hall 
without,  the  gentle  swish  of  a  dress  as  somebody 
descended  from  the  floor  above.  A  vision  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway.  Without  a  movement  in 
opposition,  without  a  word  of  remonstrance,  with- 
out a  throb  of  hesitation  on  her  part,  he  took  her 
in  his  arms.  From  the  drawing  room  opposite, 
Mr.  Robert  Maitland  softly  tiptoed  across  the 
hall  and  closed  the  library  door,  neither,  of  the 
lovers  being  aware  of  his  action. 

Often  and  often  they  had  longed  for  each 
other  on  the  opposite  side  of  a  door  and  now  at 
last  the  woman  was  in  the  man's  arms  and  no  door 
rose  between  them,  no  barrier  kept  them  apart 
any  longer.  There  was  no  obligation  of  loyalty 
or  honor,  real  or  imagined,  to  separate  them  now. 
They  had  drunk  deep  of  the  chalice  of  courage, 
they  had  drained  the  cup  to  the  very  bottom, 
they  had  shown  each  other  that  though  love  was 
the  greatest  of  passions,  honor  and  loyalty  were 
the  most  powerful  of  forces  and  now  they  reaped 
the  reward  of  their  abnegation  and  devotion. 

At  last  the  woman  gave  herself  up  to  him  in 
complete  and  entire  abandonment  without  fear 
and  without  reproach;  and  at  last  the  man  took 
what  was  his  own  without  the  shadow  of  a  reser- 
vation. She  shrank  from  no  pressure  of  his  arms, 
she  turned  her  face  away  from  no  touch  of  his  lips. 


380  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

They  two  had  proved  their  right  to  surrender  by 
their  ability  to  conquer. 

Speech  was  hardly  necessary  between  them  and 
it  was  not  for  a  long  time  that  coherent  words 
came.  Little  murmurs  of  endearment,  little  pas- 
sionate whispers  of  a  beloved  name  —  these  were 
enough  then. 

When  he  could  find  strength  to  deny  himself  a 
little  and  to  hold  her  at  arm's  length  and  look  at 
her,  he  found  her  paler,  thinner  and  more  delicate 
than  when  he  had  seen  her  in  the  mountains.  She 
had  on  some  witching  creation  of  pale  blue  and 
silver,  he  didn't  know  what  it  was,  he  didn't  care, 
it  made  her  only  more  like  an  angel  to  him  than 
ever.  She  found  him,  too,  greatly  changed  and 
highly  approved  the  alterations  in  his  appear- 
ance. 

"  Why,  Will,'*  she  said  at  last,  "  I  never  real- 
ized what  a  handsome  man  you  were." 

He  laughed  at  her. 

"  I  always  knew  you  were  the  most  beautiful 
woman  on  earth." 

"  Oh,  yes,  doubtless  when  I  was  the  only  one." 

**  And  if  there  were  millions  you  would  still  be 
the  only  one.  But  it  Isn't  for  your  beauty  alone 
that  I  love  you.  You  knew  all  the  time  that  my 
fight  against  loving  you  was  based  upon  a  misin- 
terpretation, a  mistake ;  you  didn't  tell  me  because 


The  Draught  of  Joy  381 

you  were  thoughtful  of  a  poor  dead  woman." 

"Should  I  have  told  you?" 

"No.  I  have  thought  It  all  out:  I  was  loyal 
through  a  mistake  but  you  wouldn't  betray  a  dead 
sister,  you  would  save  her  reputation  In  the  mind 
of  the  one  being  that  remembered  her,  at  the  ex- 
pense of  your  own  happiness.  And  If  there  were 
nothing  else  I  could  love  you  for  that." 

"And  Is  there  anything  else?  "  asked  she  wKo 
would  fain  be  loved  for  other  qualities. 

"  Everything,"  he  answered  rapturously,  draw- 
ing her  once  more  to  his  heart. 

"  I  knew  that  there  would  be  some  way,"  an- 
swered the  satisfied  woman  softly  after  a  little 
space.  "  Love  like  ours  is  not  born  to  fall  short  of 
the  completest  happiness.  Oh,  how  fortunate  for 
me  was  that  Idle  Impulse  that  turned  me  up  the 
canon  Instead  of  down,  for  If  It  had  not  been  for 
that  there  would  have  been  no  meeting — >" 

She  stopped  suddenly,  her  face  aflame  at  the 
thought  of  the  conditions  of  that  meeting,  she 
must  needs  hide  her  face  on  his  shoulder. 

He  laughed  gayly. 

"  My  little  spirit  of  the  fountain,  my  love,  my 
wife  that  is  to  be!  Did  you  know  that  your 
father  has  done  me  the  honor  to  give  me  your 
hand,  subject  to  the  condition  that  your  heart  goes 
with  it?" 


382  The  Chalice  of  Courage 

"you  took  that  first,"  answered  the  woman 
looking  up  at  him  again. 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.  Without 
waiting  for  permission  it  was  opened;  this  time 
three  men  entered,  for  old  Kirkby  had  joined  the 
group.  The  blushing  Enid  made  an  impulsive 
movement  to  tear  herself  away  from  Newbold's 
arms,  but  he  shamelessly  held  her  close.  The 
three  men  looked  at  the  two  lovers  solemnly  for 
a  moment  and  then  broke  into  laughter.  It  was 
Kirkby  who  spoke  first. 

"  I  hear  as  how  you  found  gold  in  them  moun- 
tains, Mr.  Newbold." 

"  I  found  something  far  more  valuable  than 
all  the  gold  in  Colorado  in  these  mountains,"  an- 
swered the  other. 

"  And  what  was  that?  "  asked  the  old  frontiers- 
man curiously  and  innocently. 

"  This !  "  answered  Newbold  as  he  kissed  th© 
girl  again. 


[THE  END 


rms  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  PINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  INCREASE  TO  so  c7nt=^-   ''"^  PENALTY 

DAY    AND    TO    *I  OO    ON    T«^-  ^  """"^ 
OVERDUE.  "'^    SEVENTH    DAY 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


912784 


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